


Chasing Ghosts

by Brie_plus_Bino



Category: Euphoria (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, BAMF Lexi Howard, BAMF Rue Bennett, Case Fic, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Slow Burn, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 40
Words: 114,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25291636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brie_plus_Bino/pseuds/Brie_plus_Bino
Summary: After some recent "mishaps" at work, Detective Rue Bennett is given one last shot to save her career.Meanwhile, Agent Lexi Howard is living case-to-case and just trying to do a good job.And both of them have some skeletons they'd rather keep in their closets.Together, the new partners are tasked with apprehending the city's most notorious serial killer in decades.(Case fic AU inspired by the iconic detectives skit from episode 7)
Relationships: Rue Bennett/Lexi Howard
Comments: 474
Kudos: 374





	1. Bad Guys

**Author's Note:**

> The following is an AU imagining of Rue and Lexi as investigators, inspired by episode 7. This is a Rexi slow burn and character study/development story—I’ve drawn as much as possible from canon backgrounds, while adding some original storylines from later in life.
> 
> Please note: While I tried to avoid sensationalized violence in this story, given the genre there may be elements in these chapters (especially later ones) that may be triggering, including graphic descriptions of violence. Please use discretion on whether this is something you are able to handle!

Rue Bennett has found herself in some high-stakes, high-stress situations before, yet considers herself fairly successful in overcoming the demands of her career. There have been some recent... _missteps_ , of course. But all in all, she’d had a good track record as a detective for the LAPD up to this point. She faced down serial sex offenders, petty thieves, unrepentant killers and violent gang members and she didn’t blink when she threw their asses in jail. In doing so, she developed nerves of steel that held up to any challenge she faced on the job.

Well, right up to this moment. Right now she’s a nervous wreck.

This is the first time in months she’s set foot in her old precinct. She’s missed this place, even if everything is the same: the smell of stale coffee and body odor, the messy desks of plainclothes officers arrayed in the open floor space, the ambience of constant noise and bustle.

This is the heart of the action; the eye of the hurricane. The organized chaos used to enervate her, but now that she’s finally back, standing in front of the captain’s office door, she’s scared shitless. Because right now she’s about to find out whether she still has a job.

Rue is not a proud woman. She resolves that she’ll beg. She’ll bargain. She’ll tell Captain Ali that this is all she has left and that she’s nothing without her work. Maybe she’ll even squeeze some tears out. Whatever it takes to get her job back. Her _life_ back.

First, however, she has to get through the captain’s door.

Her heart’s beating hard and fast, sweat budding on her brow line as she tries to quell her anxiety. She used to be so good at managing her nerves on the job, and now she’s in a constant battle to get her brain back under control. A stiff drink before this meeting—just one—probably could’ve helped calm her down, reset her brain so that she could competently argue why deserves another chance. A chance that Jules never gave her.

Instead she quells her nerves by tapping her fingertips on her palms, counting by multiples of five the number of times they touch. It’s a little counting trick that she’s used since she was a kid. when she felt like she was about to be eaten alive by her own mangled brain.

Rue rubs the sweat off her hands, girds herself with a deep breath, and knocks on the door.

“Come in!” Captain Ali beckons from inside. When she enters he motions to a chair, pulling his napkin out of his shirt and moving his breakfast sandwich to the side of his desk. “Have a seat, Bennett. Good to see you. How long has it been, a couple months?”

“Two months, three weeks and five days,” Rue answers quickly. She slumps into the chair, then straightens back up when she remembers to use decorum. “Not that I’ve been counting. Thanks for calling me back in.”

“Let’s get it straight from the jump—this is probationary,” the captain clarifies as he holds his forefinger and thumb together. “Under no circumstances are you off the hook for what happened.”

Rue’s eyes drops to the floor as she nods, swallowing thickly at the reminder of The Incident.

Captain Ali pauses for a beat to let her contemplate his disclaimer before he leans over the desk and folds his hands in front of him.

“I need you be honest with me.”

Rue’s eyes lock onto the captain’s. “Always, sir.”

“How long since your last drink?”

“Two months and three weeks,” Rue lies.

“And you’re going to your AA meetings?”

“Every week since then,” she lies again.

Captain Ali nods and hesitates for a moment before continuing. “Dr. Harmon said that you’ve been making good progress in the sessions.”

After The Incident, the conduct board mandated that Rue had to complete 15 therapy sessions in order to even be considered for reinstatement. They were... fine. Not groundbreaking or anything, just an obligation to fulfill.

“Yeah, uh, it’s been really helpful. And I’m on medication now, so... that’s good too.”

Has she just overshared? Why is she talking to her boss about her medication?

The captain sits in stoic silence and considers her answers for what seems like an eternity. Rue has counted the ceiling tiles of the captain’s office hundreds of times over her career, but her eyes still move up to count them and try to soothe her nerves.

As she reaches the sixteenth tile, Captain Ali leans back into his chair and speaks up again. “Have you been reading the papers, Detective?”

Caught off guard by the change of subject, Rue furrows her brows and nods.

“Then I trust you’re aware that our serial killer is still on the loose?”

“So that’s why you called me in? The Sandman Strangler?”

“This story’s picking up serious heat. Three homicides in the last month, as many as eighteen in the past year. There’s at least an article a day in the papers. Local news talks about it every night even if there’s nothing new to say. And we’re getting thousands of calls on this a week, everything from suspicious persons to prank confessions. It’s… getting out of hand.”

Suddenly Rue’s feeling pretty confident about the odds of her getting her job back. Because now she realizes that the captain needs her back here, doing what she does best, more than he needs to teach her a lesson about misconduct.

“And you need your best detective back to nail the creep,” Rue replies with an understanding nod.

Captain Ali grimaces at the bitter taste of his next words. “We’re not making much progress and frankly I’m concerned. So yes, I’m bringing in fresh eyes to look at this. One of whom,” he pauses as he pulls his shirtsleeve up to check his watch, “is late.”

“You don’t mean...” Rue starts as her face falls. Of course this was too good to be true. She just has to be saddled with—.

“Yes, Bennett. A partner.”

It’s not personal. Rue just hates working with partners. They don’t mesh well with her very specific style of work, slowing her down and distracting her.

“Captain, I think—.”

The captain raises his hands. “I don’t want to hear it, Bennett. Not this time. It’s so far out of my hands that I couldn’t say no even if I wanted to. The FBI’s field office for the Central District wants their own on this too.”

“Why not partner them with someone else? Anyone else?”

“Because no one else in the department’s good enough. And because I don’t trust you working on your own yet.”

A nice affirmation from Captain Ali, Rue thinks to herself, even if that last part’s difficult to hear.

Then, as if on cue, a knock on the door interrupts the conversation. Rue turns to the captain and shakes her head violently, and he replies with a stern look that reminds her to exercise some damn professionalism.

“Come in,” Captain Ali calls as he slides his breakfast sandwich into one of his desk drawers and straightens his tie.

Rue takes in the diminutive figure who enters carrying a two-foot high stack of folders, binders, and loose papers. Her eyes are wide as a deer’s in headlights as she shakes Captain Ali’s hand. “Captain, I’m so, so sorry that I’m late—.”

“Completely fine, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he waves off. “My name is Captain Ali.” Then, gesturing to Rue, “and my colleague, Detective Bennett, who’ll serve as your liaison in our department.”

Rue stands slowly to shake the frazzled agent’s hand, noting her firm grip for a small woman. “Senior Special Agent Lexi Howard.”

As the three settle into their seats and the agent and captain exchange boring pleasantries, Rue sizes up ‘Senior Special Agent’ Howard. She is short and fair, dressed in a pantsuit that looks cheap (not that Rue had a lot to boast about when it came to her own wardrobe). Her wavy brunette hair is pulled back in a lazy ponytail. The agent appears young for her position—the FBI must be robbing the cradle these days.

Rue decides, for whatever reason, that she does not like the agent. And Rue rarely finds herself wrong in her first impressions.

The mention of Rue’s name by Captain Ali reclaims her attention: “Well, I can assure you that Detective Bennett and I are happy to have your assistance. I read about your involvement in the Serrano Cartel investigation with the human trafficking ring in Salinas. That was some phenomenal investigative work.”

The agent flinches just slightly at the captain’s comment but maintains a tight façade. “Thank you, Captain. It was really a team effort.”

“As for the current matter at hand, I assume you already received a briefing on this case from your field office?”

“I’m afraid I only received this assignment on Sunday night. But I’ve already started on the homework and I’ll be caught up soon,” the agent explains as she gestures to the volumes of materiel on her lap.

“Sounds like both of you are starting from the ground up—Detective Bennett’s also new to this case.” Captain Ali then turns to Rue. “We started a workspace for the Strangler investigation in the conference room next to the break room. The two of you can set up shop in there.”

“Think I’d prefer working at my desk,” Rue asserts.

“Right now you don’t have a desk, Detective,” Captain Ali replies sternly, hinting at Rue’s tenuous employment status.

Agent Howard’s eyes flit between the captain’s and detective’s, sensing the palpable tension.

Rue leans her head forward, narrows her eyes, and smirks. “Conference room it is then.”

Rue has an opportunity to examine her temporary partner more closely as she leads the agent through the main corridor and into the conference room. She feels the agent is pretty easy to peg, since she’s worked with this type before: an under-qualified, overrated fed here to steal credit from the department after they’ve done all the groundwork.

All Rue needs to do is simply alienate Agent Howard to the point that the agent requests transfer to a different case. This tactic has served Rue quite well in the past, ensuring she can proceed with the case uninhibited from the burden of an extra investigator to lug around and babysit.

They begin to set up their workstations in the conference room, a taupe, windowless space with a fluorescent pallor. There are crates of files and casework strewn across several tables. A sad little fake plant sits in the corner. Just the sight of the decrepit workspace makes Rue wish for one neat drink to get her through the rest of the day.

Ignoring the cravings, Rue opts to set her workstation up in the corner of the room farthest from the agent, facing away from her.

“You can call me Lexi if you want,” Agent Howard offers calmly, breaking the silence.

The detective sucks her lips in and stares at Lexi for a few seconds, her expression hardening. “I’m gonna call you Agent. You can call me Detective Bennett. Or just Detective,” the taller woman replies with finality.

Because fuck diplomacy. She’s Rue fucking Bennett, and she can do this all herself.

* * *

Lexi Howard would never consider herself a “good” agent—she’s too much of a perfectionist, and she lets her teammates down with her constant overthinking, plus she’s always procrastinating on her paperwork.

Of course, nobody has ever _told_ her she’s a bad agent. On paper she’s had a very successful career. But as hard as she tries to accept her success, she can’t help but feel like an imposter.

Now, by some major oversight or horrible mistake on the part of her superiors, she finds herself tasked with another high stakes, high profile case that’ll probably ruin her life just like the last one.

Still she forges ahead. Maybe Lexi’s not the best agent, but she works hard enough to at least partially compensate for her mistakes. She credits this “success” to her structured approach for conducting investigations: 1) Accumulate and analyze collected data; 2) Synthesize analysis into formal assessments and identify key findings; 3) Integrate findings into a larger investigative framework; and 4) Use her new framework to pursue further investigation into her key findings.

And yes, this all sounds very wonky and boring. That’s what works for Lexi—an organized, predictable process. It’s gotten her this far, after all.

Since she was assigned to the Sandman Strangler case a couple weeks ago, Lexi has faithfully followed her process and culled through almost every detail gathered on the case so far: investigative reports, autopsy results, scene photographs, witness statements, tox screens...

Her new partner, meanwhile, takes a very different approach to investigating.

Compared to Lexi’s carefully organized investigative method, Detective Bennett is chaos incarnate. She likes everything laid out in front of her. Literally. She has taken up an entire corner of the conference room to tack up pictures, reports, and notes on the walls, connecting various items with strings to try to replicate her own lines of thought. The resulting cobweb of strings only reveals to Lexi that the detective has an incredibly frenetic thought process.

“Can you walk me through this? It looks like you’re just connecting everything to each other. I can’t follow the logic.” Lexi asks as she surveys the detective’s corner cobweb.

Detective Bennett swivels her head to face Lexi, her eyes glassy.

“Because everything is connected. That’s how evidence in a case works.”

“Okay,” Lexi replies in an even tone, “then can you walk me through _how_ exactly you think it’s connected?”

The detective turns back to the wall and folds her arms. “You’re the Senior Special Agent. Why don’t you tell me?”

If Lexi were a stronger person, she’d come back with some clever retort that puts Detective Bennett in her place. But she’s not a strong person, so she stays quiet and chides herself for even bothering. All she can do is bury her head in her work and forge on.

Having detailed with local police in a wide variety of cases for the past year and a half, Lexi’s accustomed to all types of departmental liaisons: the competent and incompetent, the lazy and hardworking, the helpful and unhelpful. But Detective Bennett is certainly _unique_ among them all.

First, the detective apparently hates her.

Sure, this isn’t the first time Lexi has dealt with partners who dislike her. Even though she tries her best to be a good partner, she knows she can be hard to deal with sometimes. But nobody has regarded her with as much contempt as Detective Bennett. The detective won’t even acknowledge her when Lexi comes into work in the morning or when she goes home in the evening, pretending instead that she’s working this case on her own and that Lexi just doesn’t exist.

And the woman is always in the office working the case. She appears perpetually exhausted: her makeup always smeared under her eyes, her pantsuits and button-down shirts so wrinkled that Lexi assumes the detective sleeps in her work clothes. She keeps her untamed hair in a loose bun on top of her head like it’s another nuisance she needs out of the way. Lexi wonders if the detective ever goes home, eats or sleeps. She apparently survives on a diet of coffee and nicotine patches.

And so the two proceed like this during the long workdays, working in that tiny conference room as parallel lines that do not intersect. A very normal and healthy work environment between two very normal and healthy people.

But unlike other cases, where her initial review of the evidence yielded great insights into her suspect, Lexi still knows almost nothing about the Strangler even after weeks of investigating. A surprisingly small amount of the amassed evidence is actually helpful, the rest almost seeming to mock her in its ambiguity.

The witness statements are particularly fruitless; they could not be vaguer and more unhelpful if each witness were deliberately misleading them. The only information Lexi gleans from them are the perp’s race and gender.

Her suspect is a young white man. No surprises there.

Having wrung each piece of evidence of its usefulness, Lexi continues her process by composing crime assessments for each homicide attributed to the Strangler. These assessments note such factors as how the kills were organized and the suspect’s killing ritual, his _modus operandi._ By composing and comparing each assessment, Lexi can establish definitive patterns to attribute to her perp.

It’s late into the day now, weeks after she was first assigned to the case. She’s just starting into her crime assessment for the sixteenth victim, a young woman named Mara Kemp: blonde, mid-twenties, slim figure, large brown eyes.

Lexi feels her heart skip as she opens the manila folder containing the photos from the scene.

The Strangler likes to leave behind a bloodless scene. But based on the victim’s injuries and massive blood loss, it’s clear that Mara Kemp fought back and paid the price.

There’s blood in every picture: the floor, walls, bed, even the ceiling. It’s splattered, streaked, and sprayed.

It’s not that Lexi is afraid of blood. She doesn’t like the sight of it. Or that dour, metallic smell. The way it clings on your skin, all sticky until it dries and flakes off…

She just hates blood. And yes, she has to look at blood often, so yes, sometimes this does make her job very hard.

She quickly closes the folder and slides it away from her with a jagged breath.

If she were tougher, if she were a better agent, she would be able to suck it up and get past this dislike. But she isn’t tough. She has a weak stomach and gets stopped dead in her tracks by silly things like this.

She wishes she were different, that these types of things didn’t bother her. So much of her mental bandwidth is absorbed by her noticing and cataloguing all of her shortcomings and failures.

“Gonna be here all night again?” Kat Hernandez, the lead forensic analyst for the case, leans against the doorframe.

Lexi jumps, startled out of her spiral into self-critique. She had barely noticed that it’s already 7 PM. “Guess I lost track of time,” she sighs as she rubs her tired eyes.

“We’re going to Bloody Mary’s for happy hour. You should come with.”

There are very few things Lexi can imagine wanting to do less than go to happy hour. Swimming in a shark tank would be preferable option.

“Oh, thanks. I think I should stick around here and wrap these assessments up.” She surveys the stacks of folders arrayed around her.

Maddy Perez, one of the original lead detectives for the case, pokes her head into the conference room and scowls. “Smells like BO in here.” Then her hard gaze narrows at Lexi. “You’re gonna go crazy in here just like Bennett. Get up, you’re coming with us.”

“Fuck off, Perez,” Detective Bennett mutters from her corner without turning around. Lexi had almost forgotten the detective was still here.

Lexi has never been good at saying no to people. All it takes is a light push for her to give in. Now, Maddy and Kat have caught her in a moment of exhausted weakness. She rationalizes that a change of scenery might be helpful, then she can come back and tackle the work anew.

As she pulls on her coat, Detective Bennett turns her head just slightly and watches the agent leave. No happy hour invitation was extended to the detective, for whom the conference room suddenly feels very empty.


	2. Trust the Process

Lexi hates alcohol—its taste, its smell, especially the way it messes people up.

Yes, this does make her a hypocrite because she does drink occasionally (though it’s always in a social setting and limited to just one or two drinks). But she feels she’s earned the right to resent alcohol considering how it has affected her life up to now.

Alcohol contaminates almost every memory Lexi has prior to her eighteenth birthday. In every recollection she has of Suze Howard, a half-empty bottle of wine sits within arm’s reach of the older woman.

“Hey creepy, the whole point of Halloween is to look attractive,” Suze once drunkenly mocked her when she dressed up as Bob Ross. This particular barb still stings especially badly.

That’s the power Suze Howard still has over Lexi, even from the grave.

She’s tried to bury those memories in that far, unreachable corner of her psyche. But when she’s around drunk people it’s as if she regresses into a shy and insecure teenager again, waiting for Suze to harangue her for not being pretty enough, or outgoing enough, or just _enough._

Lexi has an inconvenient inability to say no, and right now she seriously regrets letting herself be dragged along to happy hour. Because right now the people around her are very, very drunk.

“Yo, I’m not trying to be insensitive or anything. I just feel like serial killers are kind of overrated,” Maddy remarks, though Lexi can barely hear her over the bar’s blaring music.

“Overrated?” Kat questions her colleague and friend.

Maddy flips her wrist and sighs as if her point is obvious. “This is a big city, right? So there’s tons of murders a month. No one says anything about it. But if it’s one person who’s doing the killing? Then everyone freaks out.”

“Easy there, Joker,” Daniel scoffs as he rankles the ice in his old fashioned.

So Maddy Perez is a little... cynical. Nothing as bad as Daniel Johnson, the other original case lead and the department’s resident prick. Lexi vowed to steer clear when she overheard Daniel refer to her as a “nice piece of federal ass” during her first week. Now she’s seated right across from him at happy hour. So much for keeping her distance.

“Like, I know people died and all. It’s super sad. So sad,” Maddy continues, meditating on this statement just long enough for Lexi to think she’s finished before she carries on. “I’m just... Why don’t they care as much that a bunch of people kill a bunch of people?”

At this point Maddy is venturing into deep philosophical territory, despite the fact that she’s having trouble keeping her head from drooping.

“It’s not weird for someone to kill one or two people. A lot of people do that. When someone kills, like, ten, that’s not a normal thing,” Kat reasons as she sips her pina colada.

One of the junior officers, Custer, interjects. “Can we talk about something else besides the Strangler? We spend all day talking about this shit.”

“More drinks for the ladies? That includes you, Kat,” Daniel offers, to which Kat replies with a contemptuous glare. Then Daniel turns to Lexi, glancing down at her Sprite. “Can I get you a real drink, Agent? Something to loosen up, have some fun?”

Johnson’s creepiness makes her hairs stand on their ends, but Lexi knows he’s right—she isn’t a fun person. She struggles in large groups, having found that she becomes anxious and withdrawn in large groups.

“Whiskey sour,” Maddy interrupts Lexi’s reverie with a brisk order to Daniel. After the men leave to get another round of drinks, Lexi, Maddy, and Kat sit in a semi-awkward silence.

Now feels like a good time to make an exit, and Lexi is about to deploy some lame excuse to leave when—.

“Hey, how’s it been working with Bennett?” Kat pipes up.

“I... wouldn’t say I’ve been working _with_ her,” Lexi replies carefully.

“Yeah, that’s par for the course. She kind of does her own thing.”

“Trust issues,” Maddy slurs as she jabs a finger in the air. Lexi and Kat cock their heads at the same time, confused by Maddy’s vagueness.

“She’s still butthurt she got her ass dumped,” Maddy continues. Kat nudges her and she glares back. “What? It’s not like it’s a secret. Everybody in the precinct knows.”

“Oh, I don’t need to know,” Lexi tries to demur.

But Lexi has already cracked this can of worms open, and Maddy’s going to tell her anyway.

“She was married to this chick Jules, right? I saw her a few times when she visited her at work. An angel. Way out of Bennett’s league.”

Maddy takes a swig of water that Kat placed in front of her and forges ahead.

“So a few months ago Bennett stops showing up to work for like a really long time. I don’t know how long but, like, a long time. Nobody knew where she went except Captain Ali. We all assumed she died or something.”

Lexi’s eyes gaze longingly at the door, and she feels ashamed for invading her partner’s privacy just by listening to this. She wishes she could just turn invisible whenever she wanted, so she could slip out the door and escape unnoticed.

But Maddy just keeps going: “So then one day she comes into the precinct, and let me tell you, she was absolutely wasted. Like, literally could not walk straight. And she starts going off like, ‘There’s gonna be a terrorist attack on this certain day,’ blah blah blah. Made no goddamn sense.”

Now Maddy leans in closer, locking her eyes with Lexi’s. “Bitch had _lost it_. Turns out she had, like, a fucking nervous breakdown or something ‘cause Jules _left_ her ass.”

Detective Bennett is clearly a private person, and Lexi is violating her trust just by listening to this. Her mind fills with self-condemnations of how she’s a bad partner, a bad agent, a bad person...

“I feel bad for Bennett,” Kat cuts in.

“Why? She’s crazy,” Maddy snaps with another swig of water.

“It’s still shitty for someone to have to go through.”

“Love is so fucked up.” Maddy rests her head in her hand and gazes off into the middle distance, losing herself in thought.

“Alright ladies,” Daniel cuts in as he and Custer return with a new round of drinks, “who wants some shots?”

“You’re such a perv, Daniel,” Maddy snaps as she takes a shot from him, tossing it back with ease.

Lexi stares at the clear liquor placed in front of her, her distorted reflection in the shot glass looking back at her like it’s waiting to see what she’s going to do.

She knows she shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be taking breaks and trying to have fun when she hasn’t earned it and doesn’t deserve it.

Maybe it’s her discomfort with her present company, or maybe her guilty conscience rearing its ugly head again, which drives Lexi to pay her tab and say her goodbyes as quickly as she can.

When Lexi steps outside and takes a deep gulp of cool night air, she expects to feel relieved at having escaped happy hour. Instead she just feels exasperated with herself.

On the drive back to the office, the cab driver keeps looking at her in the rear view mirror. He probably thinks that she’s a basket case from the way her arms are wrapped around herself.

Right now she wants nothing more than a good night’s sleep. She probably needs it, too. But she knows when she goes home, she’ll lie awake with the same memories as always replaying themselves in her head over and over and over again. She can try to distract herself with work, at least for a couple more hours tonight.

* * *

Standing in front of her corner collage, the evidence staring back at her, Rue finally has a breakthrough: everything she’s done up to this point has been nonsense.

She hadn’t realized it until now, but her mind is running in circles.

She’s missing something obvious but doesn’t know what.

She’s out of practice. Rusty.

Or worse: she’s been gone so long that she’s forgotten how to do her job.

“WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE?”

It’s not like anyone will hear her yelling, since they all went out together for happy hour. Which is fine—not like Rue would’ve wanted to go even if she were invited. Or could have gone, since she’s technically not drinking right now (that doesn’t count the couple of drinks she had the night before last, or last weekend, or the handful of other binge days she’s had since she started the case).

To her credit, she is genuinely trying to quit. But quitting takes time and effort. Rue doesn’t have either of those at the moment, now that she’s finally back at work.

Happy hours, sobriety, loneliness... Just thinking about it makes her breath hitch. She barely registers the lump rising in her throat, her stomach gripping itself in knots. Her eyes dart around the room as the panic sets in.

She needs to get the strings off the corner wall. Everything she’s worked on so far, her logic, it doesn’t make any sense. The strings are mocking her, testifying to her lost deductive abilities. The most recent part of her life that she’s irreparably fucked up.

With newfound urgency she tears violently at the strings, ripping them off of the wall and discarding them on the floor in clumps.

_Get a grip._

Rue digs her fingernails into her scalp and tries to deter her brain from its current course.

_Get a fucking grip._

Her palms press into her eyelids. She gulps for air and feels her lungs squeezing the air right back out.

She anchors herself as best she can, holding onto the walls like the room is about to tilt. Slowly, surely, after seconds or minutes, the room stops spinning, the panic ebbs and she returns to earth.

Exhausted, she slumps against the wall and slides down to the floor, reckoning with the despair that has displaced her panic.

She shouldn’t be on this case. She doesn’t belong here. Not anymore.

But if she doesn’t belong here at the precinct, where _does_ she belong?

She looks around the room where she’s spent so many weekly briefings, worked so many long hours running on nothing but coffee and candy, knocking out case after case with unprecedented efficiency for her department.

She had made a difference here once. Once she was enough.

Maybe outside of these walls she wasn’t enough. Not for her family or Jules or anyone else who knew her. But she could still trust that she was good enough to do this job. She’d trusted in that until the job was all that mattered to her.

And then she fucked herself up and lost her job.

So where does this leave her now?

No wife. No life.

And now, in all likelihood, no job.

Rue doesn’t believe in instant remedies, believing that nothing comes easily. But damned if one shot of whiskey couldn’t solve most of her current problems. For the night at least.

She jolts at the sound of the door opening and shutting, though she doesn’t have to turn around to see who it is. She’s grown very familiar with the smell of peach body mist that accompanies the Agent Howard’s presence.

“Oh. Didn’t know you’d still be here,” the agent quietly greets as she sits down at her table.

“It’s only 9 o’clock.”

“Yeah, guess it is.”

There’s something off in the agent’s tone of voice. She sounds beaten, almost defeated.

Why would the agent come back to work after happy hour, instead of going home? Apparently both she and Rue are workaholics with no personal lives. Maybe they aren’t completely incompatible as partners.

Rue’s eyes linger on the agent, watching the smaller woman slide her reading glasses on and start into a report.

The agent has been here for weeks—she has to have something, anything, related to this case that Rue can turn into a lead, that she can use to earn her job back.

The agent has already completely absorbed herself in her work, hunched over her notebook so her face is inches from the papers strewn around her.

“How’s it coming?” she posits carefully.

Agent Howard’s head shoots up with a surprised and confused expression. “Were... you talking to me?”

Rue looks around the clearly empty room. “Well there’s no one else in here.”

Fuck, Rue is bad at talking to people.

“What happened to the strings?” the agent asks, having finally noticed Rue’s demo job.

Rue looks at her corner, the pile of strings on the floor, then back at the agent. She tucks a stray hair behind her ear.

“I need to... approach this differently I guess.”

Another awkward silence.

“Would you mind, uh, filling me in? On the suspect profile?”

“ _You_ want to know what _I’m_ working on?”

“Yeah?”

Agent Howard looks as though Rue had just told her there was life on Mars. Apparently it really _is_ that surprising for Rue to be nice to someone.

“I mean, I’m not completely done so I don’t know if it’ll make much sense yet. I’m kind of tabbing the notes as I go,” the agent rambles as she scratches the back of her neck.

“That’s fine. Maybe I can fill in some stuff,” Rue replies coolly, trying to sound casual and not completely desperate for leads.

“Yeah, okay, let’s see here...” Agent Howard trails off as she flips through her notes, apparently very thrown off by Rue’s sudden diplomacy.

Rue scoots her chair up to the agent’s table and turns it backwards, sitting down with her arms folded atop the back rest.

This is the closest Rue has ever sat to the agent, and she can’t help but notice her apparent exhaustion. Her eyes are rimmed red, the dark circles even deeper than before.

But she’s still here, at 9 PM on a Thursday night, to keep working. Rue concedes some admiration for the agent’s doggedness, though it’s concerning that she should feel any emotion but apathy towards her partner.

She watches the agent flip back and forth in her notebook, lips moving as she mouths her notes, trying to organize discordant thoughts in her flustered mind. She’s almost as awkward as Rue.

Taking mercy on the flustered agent, Rue sets up the basics for her: “Eighteen total homicides linked to the Sandman Strangler. All women, all in their twenties or thirties. All killed in their own homes.”

Agent Howard knits her eyebrows together. “It’s just so weird that there’s almost no usable CCTV footage available for any of our victims’ cases. Even when there’s a system in the victim’s complex, the footage is tampered with or the cameras were disabled.” She sighs and shakes her head. “He always has a plan for how to get in and out clean. He’s meticulous.”

“Yeah, I would be too if I’d killed that many people.” Rue quips, and catches the agent smirk just slightly at her dryness.

“That’s not the only thing he’s meticulous about. I’ve been studying these forensic reports and I think I’ve got the sequencing worked out for his ritual.”

Rue scoots in closer, eyes glinting with interest. She’s always been drawn to morbidity, and ritual killings definitely fit that category. Now Agent Howard really has her attention.

“First the victim is rendered with an incapacitating agent. Then it gets pretty... messed up.” She hesitates and draws in a deep breath. “The victim is undressed, all of their body hair shaved off, fingernails and toenails painted, redressed, and their wrists and ankles bound.”

“Well that’s certainly... specific.” Rue leans back and taps her fingertips together as she processes the new information. “Okay, why so specific? What’s the purpose?”

“Sexual gratification,” the agent replies with certainty.

“None of the bodies had any evidence of penetration or sodomy.”

“Binding, shaving, dressing them up—there’s no practical purpose to it. Just killing them isn’t sufficient; he has to control and humiliate them, too. It’s an outgrowth of deviant sexual fantasies. Not to mention almost all of them were all killed on their own beds.”

“And then he strangles them.”

Rue mulls this point for a second, then stands up quickly and rushes to her corner to retrieve a few autopsy photos from the wall. She examines the photos and then lays them on the table in front of the agent, pointing at their necks. “That’s some serious fucking bruising.”

“Yet none of them have other external injuries. Except for Victim #16.”

Rue rests her chin on her hand, still troubled by this major detail.

“Do you know how long it takes for someone to die by manual strangulation?” she questions the agent.

“A couple of minutes?”

Before the agent can react, Rue jumps up and places her hands around Agent Howard’s neck. Rue clutches the agent’s throat with great force for a few seconds that feel much longer, before taking her hands off of the now-terrified agent.

“Four to five minutes. If you’re squeezing them as tight as I just squeezed you, it still takes that long to kill them with your bare hands,” Rue explains. “In terms of trying to kill someone it’s not an efficient method.”

The detective shakes her head, feeling slightly disturbed by the Strangler’s method though she’d never admit it. “That’s a lot of effort to hold them like that for so long. You have to have a deep, specific desire to want to kill someone like that. So what does that say about our perp?”

The agent says nothing, only rubs her hand over her throat. Her skin is flush and eyes wide, still trying to recover from Rue’s unanticipated assault.

“For one thing?” Rue answers her own question. “This is one sick fuck.”


	3. The Final Act

Nate Jacobs has always known that he was destined for greatness.

When he was growing up, his father instilled in him the belief that, in whatever he chose to pursue, he would excel. And that he would be hated for it.

So Nate Jacobs grew up knowing that, even in his own story, he was the villain.

Even for a villain he lives a pretty charmed life. His family’s wealth and connections ensured he never had to worry about getting into a good school or finding a job with a three-figure income after graduation.

Yet he deserves _some_ credit for his own success. He has stayed disciplined and listened to his father: he would never give his enemies an opening. Instead, he would simply control them and everyone else around him.

Nate dislikes the word “manipulate.” It has such negative connotations. He prefers “control”—a matter of simply applying a certain amount of pressure to the right areas. This is his mantra, his guiding principle that he uses with his family, friends, lovers, coworkers, and especially to his victims.

For the latter, 33 pounds of pressure for ten seconds is required to close off the trachea long enough for the victim to fall unconscious. This pressure must be sustained on the trachea and applied to the carotid arteries for at least four to five minutes to ensure brain death, though Nate keeps his stranglehold for exactly seven minutes just to be sure. None of his victims have been revived and Nate intends to keep it this way.

As he refined his process to a science, the events of the Final Act have become very familiar to him. Of course, there are certain prerequisites that Nate needs to fulfill for his own sake. First and foremost the body hair has to go, because there’s nothing— _nothing—_ in the world that Nate Jacobs hates more than body hair. She must be prepared to his satisfaction: clothed in a nice dress or skirt, accessorized with makeup and polish as he sees fit.

He sits in the corner of the darkened bedroom, watching the woman on the bed stir just a little. She looks lovely right now, his preparations befitting her natural beauty much more than her previous masculine style. He’s honoring her in this way.

All of this, however, is preamble. In a few more minutes she’ll be conscious. And he will begin her Final Act.

She’ll wake up and he’ll see the progression of her realizations occurring in real time: she’s been drugged, a strange man is straddling her, and she can’t fight him off or scream for help.

He’ll wrap his gloved hands around her throat and begin to choke her life away. Her eyes will gloss and roll back, the terror receding from them while she lapsed into unconsciousness. Then her eyes will redden, her face blotching as her life drains away, and he would feel her last breaths escaping from her nose and mouth.

He is continually fascinated by the whole process in their deaths. It’s what keeps him coming back for more. He sees something so pure and honest in these moments, each of these women sharing something with him in their last moments that only he knows. In a way, this makes him closer to her than anyone else who ever knew her or loved her.

His attention is reclaimed by the figure stirring, now thrashing against her binds. It’s time for her Final Act.


	4. The A-Team

A few years ago Lexi decided to take up running. So everyday for the past year and a half, she’s ran the same 10-mile route, listening to a playlist that she hasn’t updated in two years. She’s not a naturally athletic person but she figured that as long as she kept at it, it’d get easier with practice.

This morning she finds herself doubled over, gasping for breath, trying to loosen the cramps wringing the muscles in her ribs and calves.

“God I hate this,” she hisses as she realizes she’s still about three miles away from her apartment.

So she stands up, ignoring the pain, and pushes herself forward one step at a time. To Lexi that has always been the only option—ignoring the pain, moving forward and making the best she can with what she’s got.

When she gets home it becomes very apparent, very quickly that this is not going to be her day. She’s barely stepped out of the shower when her phone buzzes with texts from an unknown number.

_It’s Bennett. From Police Dept._

_New victim. Meet me at the precinct. ASAP._

“How did she...?”

Lexi doesn’t finish her thought—she doesn’t want to know how Detective Bennett managed to get her personal phone number. She taps out a quick response before she starts to dress herself:

_I’ll be there in about 45 min. Running late for the bus._

Her phone is ringing within seconds, and though Lexi doesn’t particularly want to speak with her partner before she gets into work, she answers anyway. She figures if she were trying to call someone this early in the morning it’d be for a good reason. And she can’t cope with the idea of ignoring someone when they need her.

“Hello?”

“You’re a grown ass woman, Howard,” the detective barks. “Why are you taking the bus to work?”

“Hey, tons of people take the bus.”

“You live in Los fucking Angeles.”

“That’s not... I... Are you actually calling me at 7 in the morning to talk about my preferred methods of transportation?”

“Send me your address. I’m coming to pick you up.”

Lexi hesitates for a moment. Does she really want to give her home address to a woman who strangled her a few days ago? She rationalizes that the detective has already found her phone number, so she’ll find her address regardless if Lexi tells her.

“Fine, I’ll text it to you,” she acquiesces.

“Be there in 20.”

“You don’t even know where you’re going yet,” Lexi mutters to the woman who just hung up on her, then sends her home address.

Lexi’s mind is churning as she scarfs down a breakfast of cold leftover pasta. This is the first new victim in at least a few weeks—bad news that there’s another victim, but at least she’ll finally have the opportunity to examine a fresh crime scene instead of working off of pictures and paperwork.

The most concerning aspect of these kills is the lack of trace evidence at the scenes. Any killer with a few functioning brain cells knows to clean up after themselves, but the Strangler takes this to a new level, always leaving the scene completely devoid of saliva, semen, blood, or other identifiable discharges. She logs a mental note to check local distributors of industrial-grade disinfectants.

The rituals, the concern for physical control, the excessive cleanliness... there has to be something more here. A thread she just needs to pull that will unravel everything else.

Right now, however, she’s just grasping straws.

A car horn blares outside, jolting her back to reality. Because of course Detective Bennett is honking this early in the morning and pissing off the neighbors.

Lexi is a terrible person for assuming the detective drove a car as beat up as her wardrobe. It’s a nice car actually (though Lexi doesn’t know the first thing about cars), but the interior is basically ruined. Bennett slides some trash off of the passenger seat onto the floorboard as Lexi climbs in, the smell of old food, dirty clothes, and cigarettes hitting her nose immediately.

As she takes off down the street, Detective Bennett wastes no time filling Lexi in on details: “Victim was found on her bed, hands bound behind her back. The only sign of a physical struggle was bruising of the neck and wrists.”

“Sounds like it fits the profile.”

“At least our guy is consistent. Every kill, boom-boom-boom, same style.” The detective talks fast, almost manic compared to her usual detached self. “We know _who_ he’s targeting....”

“It’s just a matter of finding the pattern.”

“Dating app?”

Lexi shakes her head. “Maddy and Daniel already chased down that lead and came up dry.”

“Well, no offense to Perez and Johnson, but I don’t think we should rule anything out until we’ve looked into it ourselves. They’re not exactly the A-Team.”

“And we are?” Lexi scoffs, immediately castigating herself for her accidentally bitchy tone.

But the detective doesn’t seem bothered. “Fuck yeah we are. You’re looking at the best detective this side of the 710. And you,” she says with an accusatory jab of her finger, “I’ve done some _digging_ on you.”

It’s a safe assumption that when someone says they’ve “done some digging on you,” they’re about to bring up something you don’t want to talk about. Especially when you have things you want to stay hidden.

“That trafficking ring task force in Salinas? You know, I’m not one for compliments but I’ve gotta say I’m impressed, Howard. You took down the fucking Serrano Cartel. Do you know how long the LAPD spent trying to nail those guys?”

Should she feel flattered by Bennett’s unexpected compliment, or upset that the detective did research on her? Her career history is one subject that Lexi tries to avoid talking about at all costs. Especially Salinas.

Lexi can’t summon a response, silent for long enough that the detective slaps her arm with the back of her hand to snap Lexi out of her disquiet state. “Earth to Howard, you read me?”

She knows she needs to say something.

“It was a great team effort,” she replies flatly, though her own words barely register in her foggy mind.

“Come on, you don’t need to be modest.”

For the record, Lexi hates compliments. They make her violently uncomfortable. And unless Detective Bennett decided to develop a conscience since she choked Lexi a few days ago, she’s only being nice to Lexi as a means to an end.

“Okay, look,” the detective continues, “all I’m saying is 53 convictions on 58 arrests is like, unprecedented. Especially when you’re talking about a crime syndicate like the Serrano Cartel. And you were leading the cadre that gathered almost all the prosecuting evidence, so you’re like... 80 percent responsible for getting them all convicted.”

Obviously Bennett means what she said as another compliment, but hearing that she was responsible for the convictions only further confirms to Lexi that what after the convictions really is her fault.

“I don’t want to sound rude or anything, but... could you maybe not... do research on me? It’s not personal, it’s just...”

God, she can’t stand how small and weak her voice sounds right now.

A tenuous and uncomfortable silence follows before the detective speaks up again: “Yeah, no, I won’t do that anymore. Sorry, it’s a force of habit. Nothing personal.” After another brief silence she offers her McDonalds cup to Lexi. “Coffee?”

“Oh god, yes,” she replies eagerly. if there’s anything Lexi needs for this car ride it’s coffee.

Or not—she wretches a little when the bitter taste of dark roasted black coffee hits her tongue and she fights the urge to spit it out. Bennett smirks but doesn’t comment, just turning up her stereo to remedy the resulting silence.

Lexi remains lost in thought for the rest of the car ride, her mind stuck on Salinas.

Arrests, conviction rates... Those numbers weren’t the ones that mattered to Lexi. What mattered were the 133 women, mostly minors, who were recovered from the motel in Salinas and the shipping containers in Marina.

After their rescue Lexi interviewed every woman who was able to provide comment. She sat with them in interrogation rooms and hospital rooms, listening as they recounted their physical, sexual, and mental traumas to her.

Almost all were emotional, and most cried. More heartbreaking were the ones who didn’t emote at all, still so shell-shocked by what they had lived through.

Through it all Lexi followed procedure to the letter—because damn if she didn’t trust in her process. Even if she had to break the rules by holding their trembling hands or giving a few hugs in the process.

* * *

As Lexi and the detective arrive at the victim’s residence, Lexi refocuses her mind to the case at hand: the Strangler, a nineteenth victim, and a crime scene that is completely out of control. Media and bystanders are accumulating quickly with phones and cameras at the ready, uniformed officers trying unsuccessfully to manage the growing crowd.

The two sit in silence for a minute observing the chaos from a distance, then Lexi pulls on her navy blue windbreaker with ‘FBI’ emblazoned on the left chest, sleeves, and back. 

“Sick jacket, Special Agent,” the detective mocks. Lexi rolls her eyes as they hop out of the car.

“Ma’am, ma’am!” shouts one reporter as she pushes a mic in Lexi’s face, “can you tell us what happened here?”

“No comment.”

The reporter pushes closer to pin Lexi against the car. “Is this the work of the Stranger?”

“She said no comment,” Bennett snaps, shifting in front of Lexi to clear a path for her.

The agent and detective manage to squeeze through the gawking crowd and dip under the yellow tape. CSI and uniformed officers clutter the front yard and porch, coming and going from the house with various equipment.

Finally, the duo locates a familiar face among the throng. “Welcome to the shitshow,” Maddy greets as she leans against a column on the porch.

“Have they moved the body out yet?” Bennett asks, getting straight to business.

“Not yet. You should hurry though. I think they’re getting the stretcher.”

The detective is inside before Maddy can finish her sentence.

“Press was already outside when we got here. Guess our witness leaked.”

“There’s a witness?” Lexi squeaks, using a good deal of self-control to stop herself from rushing in after Bennett.

“Yeah, one of her neighbors. Thinks she saw him leave the house last night. She’s in the living room.”

Lexi enters the home behind Maddy, eager to take the witness’s statements. The case’s witnesses so far have been useless, but maybe Lexi can glean some useful information now that she’s the one asking the questions.

She finds her mark on the victim’s couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.

“Miss Burke, I’m Special Agent Howard with the FBI’s Central District. Alright if I ask a few questions?”

“You can call me BB,” she replies casually. She doesn’t look up from her phone as Lexi sits down on the coffee table across from her. “Can I vape in here?”

Lexi ignores this question and dives straight in: “You said you saw someone leaving Miss Villarreal’s house last night. About what time did you see this?”

“I think it was at nine? Or maybe like, midnight.”

“You don’t know whether you saw him at nine o’clock or at midnight?”

“Look, I was kinda fucked up last night. Y’all are lucky I’m even awake right now. This is, like, hours before I usually get up.”

Lexi’s initial hopes for a useful witness are sinking fast, because she can already tell by the dilated pupils and slurred speech that this witness is still visibly drunk or high.

“Do you recall what he looked like?”

“He was tall. Like, _tall_ tall. He had black hair. A pointy chin.”

“Can you describe his vehicle?”

“Nah, he didn’t have no car. When I saw him walking out her house I was like, ‘Damn, Sara’s getting ghosted after a hookup _again_?’ ‘Cause men are trash, right?” She puffs a cloud of vapor into Lexi’s face. “Except it turns out instead of ghosting her, he just killed her.”

“Thanks Ms. Burke, we’ll be back in touch soon for an official statement.”

Though Lexi’s disappointed, she suspects this witness will have some more information to provide once she sobers up. She’s already given a better description of the suspect than any previous witness, just by naming his hair color and “pointy chin.”

When Lexi moves to the bedroom the first thing she notices, to her immense relief, is that there isn’t any blood. There is, however, some vomit. Lexi has to dab some VapoRub under her nose just to go inside the room, which is permeated with an acidic odor.

Sara Villarreal has only been dead a few hours, and if it weren’t for the deep bruising on her neck, one might think she was merely napping on her bed. Her wide, glassy eyes are fixed on something in the middle distance, her deep red lips contrasting starkly with her ghostly white pallor.

Detective Bennett is crouched over the victim, just inches from the body as she examines the neck bruises closely. Lexi isn’t sure how long she stands there, just observing the detective. This is the first time since they’ve met that Bennett doesn’t look like she wants to crawl out of her own skin. Usually Bennett’s face is scrunched with restlessness or impatience, but now it’s clear and calm.

“Leave room for Jesus!” Daniel quips, breaking both Bennett’s concentration and the trance the detective apparently pulled Lexi into. The agent breathes a sigh of herself relief that nobody noticed her staring at her partner.

“Fuck off, Johnson,” Bennett hisses as she stands up and straightens herself out. Daniel exits quickly with a malicious smirk.

“He’s such a fucking creep,” Bennett mutters to herself before turning back around to the body.

Lexi focuses on a different detail—the victim’s room. The walls are painted in pastel yellows and blues, and bulletin boards filled with pictures of family and friends are hung on every wall. There’s an old, worn stuffed polar bear upside down on the floor, like it was pushed off the bed. A set of hiking boots wait patiently by her closet next to a pile mat of laundry.

“Howard!” Bennett claps her hands in her face. “Snap out of it. Let’s check out the bathroom.”

The bathroom is way too small—she can feel Bennett’s body heat and hear her quiet breaths. Moving her eyes anywhere that isn’t the detective, Lexi notes that the bath faucet isn’t quite turned off, running at a small stream.

“Do you remember if the forensic reports for the other kills specifically mentioned the victims being bathed?”

“I guess if they had, you would’ve included that in your ritual theory.”

Bennett’s got a point there.

Lexi’s eyes linger on the shower. Between the running faucet and the small droplets in the basin, it was clearly used in the last few hours. And not by the victim, apparently.

“Shit, come look at this,” the detective beckons from underneath the sink, completely derailing Lexi’s train of thought.

She crouches down next to Bennett, who’s pointing at a gallon baggie of orange medicine bottles tucked behind a stack of towels.

“How about them apples?” Bennett asks, obviously proud of herself.

Lexi turns to Bennett, both of them beaming at the discovery.

At this point it occurs to Lexi that there’s only about four inches of space between her and Bennett’s faces, so close that Lexi can feel the warmth of her partner’s breath. Bennett’s eyes shimmer with excitement, the first unfiltered emotion Lexi has seen from the detective.

There’s a moment, about a half-second between the time they turn to look at each other and the time that they stand up, when Lexi’s eyes flutter down to Bennett’s lips—soft and pink and full and curving up at the corners in a mischievous way.

Then the moment is over as they rise to their feet.

“What’s the move, Bennett?”

The detective grins again, and for the first time Lexi sees that incredibly charming crooked front tooth in Bennett’s smile. “I’m gonna go get CSI for this and find out what she was selling. Then I’m gonna make a call. Then we’re gonna get some damn breakfast.”


	5. Night and Day

“Okay, thanks man. See you soon.” Rue ends the call and takes in a deep, satisfying breath.

It’s been a good fucking day so far. She’s functioning at maximum capacity, didn’t need to put any nicotine patches on this morning, no intrusive thoughts about Jules or drinking, and best of all she’s on the brink of a huge lead. Nothing can slow her down.

Even the weather is great. There’s not a cloud in the sky.

On the drive to breakfast Rue energetically lectures Agent Howard on Aokigahara, the wilderness at the base of Mount Fuji known for the high number of suicides within its dense forestry—“People literally travel there from all over, go out and set up a campsite, then kill themselves. It’s like a spiritual tradition to go there, like a place of pilgrimage for committing suicide.”

The agent has no comment on this fascinating topic.

At the diner they scoot into a booth covered with sticky plastic over the seats and order some coffee: Rue’s with one sugar, Howard’s with three creams and two sugars. Then they get straight to business.

“Whoever the Strangler is, his hands are fucking huge. The bruises on her neck were gnarly,” Rue notes through a swig from her mug.

“The witness said he was tall. So we’re looking for a tall white man. With a pointy chin. I guess that narrows it down a little bit.”

“Did she say how tall?”

“Telling me he was tall is the most useful thing she said,” the agent confesses through a sip of coffee. “She may have partied a little too hard last night to be useful to us this morning.”

Their meals arrive mid-conversation. Howard has ordered the Lumberjack Meal: scrambled eggs, hash browns, wheat toast, bacon, grits and gravy, ham steak. And a fruit cup.

“For a small woman you eat like a trucker,” Rue mutters.

Howard glances down at Rue’s breakfast: banana pancakes covered with whipped cream and chocolate syrup.

“For a grown woman you eat like a ten year old.”

“Touché.”

Howard takes a hefty bite of grits and starts back into their discussion on the latest victim. “I had this theory about the bathroom—.”

“Ah ah ah, no work talk while we’re eating,” Rue interrupts. “You don’t fuck in your office, right? Same concept applies here.”

She clocks Howard’s cheeks blushing furiously at the comment. A silence permeates between them, and Rue’s legs bounce restlessly under the table.

The agent has been kind of spaced out since Rue tried to compliment her on the Salinas trafficking ring. Rue figures she’s either uncomfortable being complimented, or associates this particular experience with something that’s too painful to discuss. Perhaps both. Rue logs these observations for future reference.

Agent Howard probably isn’t aware that Rue is keeping detailed mental notes on her partner. It’s just another innocent force of habit for the detective. Rue compiles information on anyone she has to spend time with. Just in case she may need to use it.

She knows what her coworkers try to hide: Captain Ali’s kids don’t talk to him; Perez went to juvie for assault in seventh grade; Johnson was almost expelled from college for sexual assault, but his rich dad got the case against him dropped; Custer had a slight drug problem; Hernandez has slept with basically the whole precinct, including Johnson and Custer.

Everyone has baggage. It’s just the nature of being human. Yet almost everyone tries to hide their pain. Unfortunately Rue doesn’t have the luxury of being able to hide it like others can. Ever since “the incident” three months ago, her failures have been on full display for everyone to ogle and judge. So it’s only fair that Rue should know others as well as they know her.

Now Rue knows that, based on this morning, Agent Howard is an extremely private person who really, really does not like the fact that Rue researched her.

And that the agent likely has something to hide.

Except now, Rue has constrained herself because she told Howard she wouldn’t look her up anymore. Say what you will about her morals, but when a commitment is made Rue intends to keep it. Therefore, from now on Rue will have to gather further intelligence on Agent Howard through informal interrogation (AKA ‘conversation’).

“So, tell me—why the FBI?”

Agent Howard furrows her brow, clearly not expecting the question. “Why the FBI?” she repeats.

“Yeah, out of anywhere why pick the FBI?”

She takes a bite of eggs and considers the question.. “Well, they sorta picked me. I was studying forensic psych at George Washington and they recruited me during my last semester. Went straight from graduation to Academy in Quantico.”

“Okay but still, you’re a forensic expert in D.C.—the intelligence capital of the Western Hemisphere— and out of everywhere in the city you can go you choose _the FBI_?”

Howard points at Rue with her fork. “You know, I somehow get the feeling that you’re not a fan of my employer.”

“Let’s just say I haven’t had the best experience working with you guys.”

Howard mulls this point for a moment and replies carefully. “That’s fair. I can’t speak for the work my colleagues did with you.” Then she turns earnest. “But I want to do whatever it takes to help. That’s why I do this job. To help. And right now, we need to get this guy off the streets.” Her voice doesn’t waver.

“Your turn,” the agent prompts after a brief silence. “Why municipal? Why a detective?”

“Ope, looks like we’re done eating. Time to get back to work.”

Except they’re not done eating—Howard still has one bite left on her fork. They both look at her fork, then each other. Howard sets her fork down and leans forward, resting her chin on her wrist.

“Ah, we don’t need to get into it,” Rue tries to play off with a casual dismissal.

“No way, quid pro quo. I just told you about myself, now it’s your turn.”

So Rue sits back in the booth and retraces the past several years. Why did she want to be a cop again? Had she been as idealistic back then as Howard was? She can barely remember now, feeling as if she’s recalling another lifetime.

_“It’s not exactly a starter position. I’ll have to work my way up. But I think this could be a really good fit for me.” Rue fidgeted with her sleeves, anxious for Jules’ reaction._

_“Rue Bennett a cop?” Jules exclaimed as she flashed that brilliant smile of hers. Rue dropped her head, embarrassed by the thought._

_But of course, Jules was wonderful and supportive about it, because she’s a fucking angel. “It sounds perfect for you.”_

_“You think so?”_

_“Yes. Honestly I’m just glad there’s finally something you want to do.” She leaned her head against Rue’s, rubbing in her fingertips soothingly in Rue’s palms. “Just be careful, okay?”_

Rue shakes her head to ward off the memory, stammering a vague reply. “I guess I’ve always had a knack for figuring stuff out. And I thought I could do something useful with it.”

Howard takes her final bite and wipes her hands with her napkin, and Rue doesn’t hesitate to start back into the case.

“So those pills under the sink: Xanax, Ritalin, Ativan, Adderall, Percocet. They found her ledger too. Our girl was dealing..”

“Could the Strangler have been one of her buyers?”

“She wasn’t dealing any GHB or Rohypnol, and that’s what he always uses.”

“Right, so…”

“So that gets me thinking: where’s he getting his supply from? Obviously he’s buying a lot. Like, probably a sus amount even for someone who uses drugs. My plan is—.”

“Find the Strangler by finding his dealer?”

“Exactly.”

“How are you gonna get them to talk?”

“I have my ways.”

The agent nods contemplatively. “What’s our next move, then?”

“Tonight at 8 o’clock I’ll fill you in on the plan. We’re going to run a little errand.”

It’s an ominous proposal, mostly because Rue enjoys a flair for the dramatic.

To her surprise the agent doesn’t question her: “8 o’clock it is.”

* * *

Rue spends the rest of the day with Howard in the conference room, pinning up their evidence and plotting out connections. The resulting mosaic covers the whole back wall of the conference room, creating a new theory map that the partners dub ‘the Drawing Board.’

The agent’s slower, methodical approach balances Rue’s breakneck (if frenetic) pace as they work together. Call it excitement or mania, but Rue’s brain has this bad habit of reeling out of control when she’s thinking up new observations and theories. Unlike coworkers and past partners, however, Howard doesn’t seem put off by her partner’s helter-skelter style, instead tempering Rue calmly.

At 6:30 PM, after hours of nonstop work, Rue feels her mental pace slipping a little bit, her heartbeat slowing. She stretches and yawns, then rubs her eyes. “I’m gonna take a little walk, get some fresh air. Be back in a sec,” she informs Howard as she grabs her jacket. She taps her fingers to her palms and counts under her breath as she makes her way outside.

It’s still beautiful outside, though the air’s a little chillier than this morning. Rue looks up and observes the sky, still clear except for a single cottony cloud overhead.

She watches as a descending jet then manages, out of all the space in the damn sky, to fly straight through the lone cloud, leaving it gashed and wispy with a contrail piercing straight through it.

It’s as if the world has just shifted on its axis so slightly that only Rue can feel it’s different. She leans herself against a wall to steady herself. She knows what’s coming from past experience. There’s one thing which she clearly and definitively knows right now: she needs to get home immediately.

Fortunately her keys and wallet are in her jacket, but she still struggles to make it to her car. On the drive home she can feel her world closing in on her, smothering her.

  
Once home Rue lies flat on her back, feeling as though her chest is being crushed with heavy weights, and feels tears run from the corners of her eyes down her temples. She stays like this for a long time, silently weeping, letting the sorrow wash over her in wave after wave.

What exactly causes bipolar disorder—is it nature or nurture? Some imbalance of chemicals in her brain? Or is it the sum of the stress, the loss, the trauma? Is her brain fracturing under the strain Rue inflicts on it?

Eventually, somehow, she runs out of tears, turns onto her side, and pulls herself into a ball. The sun is still shining brightly outside. She can hear some kids playing and shouting down the street. But to Rue, anything outside of her blanket cocoon is a world away.

She’s paralyzed. The calculus of how many of her muscles, tendons, and joints must work together in conjunction, contracting her muscles to enable her to move, just doesn’t make sense. So much effort for so little gain.

The human body is an absolute tragedy of a miracle. Our bodies have evolved into an intricate, delicate system in order to sustain life. And all this effort, this marvel of evolution, absolutely squandered on such a shitty and fallible creation as the human soul.

Rue contemplates these tragedies as the sun sets, holding herself as still as possible. It hurts to move, hurts to think.

The agent calls her at 7:30 and 8:15 and 9. It takes a lot of concentrated effort, but Rue manages to move her arm and then her finger to push the decline button each time.

At some point in the night (though time is immaterial to Rue right now), she turns on _To Catch a Predator_ to watch passively over the next several days, though even this brings her no pleasure.

As a latch key kid who grew up watching TV without any parental supervision, _To Catch a Predator_ was Rue’s favorite show. She watched reruns and clips every afternoon and evening, taking notes on the investigators’ evidence-gathering strategies.

 _TCAP_ was where she first saw something in investigative work that she knew played to her strengths: she has always been really, really good at figuring shit out. That was probably why she decided to become a cop and a detective in the first place—she thought her weaknesses were her strengths.

That was before The Incident, back when she thought her obsessiveness was tenacity and her mania was creativity. Nowadays, every emotion Rue experiences is reduced to a symptom of a disorder, something to be monitored and medicated by doctors and therapists.

Right now Dr. Harmon would tell her that she’s entering into a depression phase. These terms, clinical and sterile, don’t do justice to the sheer anguish of this mental state. Depression reshapes your conception of everything you hold to be real and true, convincing you that this muted, bleak, broken version of the world you see is the true reality.

This is the real Rue Bennett—sick, lonely, broken, paralyzed by crushing sadness.

Her medication would probably help if she could remember to take it consistently, but she’s too forgetful and it makes her dull and dumb anyway.

She does have some alternative medicine on hand—she had almost forgotten about the bottle of Southern Comfort stashed under her bed. All she’d need to do is lean over and feel around underneath, and she’d find it.

Right now, though, she doesn’t even want to drink. She doesn’t want to do anything or feel anything when she’s already feeling too much.

And now she’s lost in the tunnel, no light at the end, trapped in here alone, nothing but intrusive thoughts which send wave after wave of physical pain and emotional sorrow flowing through her.

_Everyone I care about has left me._

_Everyone I know thinks I’m an embarrassment. A burnout. A failure._

_Why am I even still trying?_

Since she’s technically not drinking right now, there’s nothing to take the edge off of the hell she’s going through. At least when she drank, all the fear and the hurt melted away for at least a few hours. A short reprieve from the constant brain strain.

She’s paralyzed, only able to curl into herself and pull her favorite blanket over her for some comfort.

Time stops altogether, just intervals of sunlight and darkness.


	6. Forks in the Road

Four days ago Bennett told Lexi she was stepping outside and then disappeared into thin air. The detective had been amped up about a lead they were going to chase that evening. And then Bennett didn’t come back upstairs, never replied to the agent’s concerned calls and texts.

Maybe she’s a little concerned about her partner, but Lexi can’t help it. She’s always cared too much about everything—once, when she was seven, her dad hit a possum with his car, causing Lexi to cry so hard that he had to turn around and retrieve it for a proper burial. Nowadays her colleagues gently tease that she should’ve been a social worker instead of an agent, since she tends to get emotionally invested in her casework.

That sensitivity, that strong desire to restore justice to the victim, is what drove Lexi to become an agent in the first place. Sometimes, however, it also makes her job very hard.

She finds herself working alone in the conference room, back to studying the scene photos from Victim #16, Mara Kemp. She stares at the blond hair intermingled in the ill-defined pool of congealed blood and brain matter.

The Strangler had attempted his ritual on Mara Kemp as he had his other victims, but Mara somehow escaped her restraints and fought back. For her attempt she was struck with the corner of a lamp on her bedside table, inflicting a deep laceration in her scalp and fracturing her skull. Apparently the bleeding was so heavy that CSI had to take both the mattress and box spring, and even then the blood still stained the carpet underneath the bed.

Maybe Mara Kemp was a good person. Maybe she was someone who did a lot of bad things. It didn’t matter. At the end of the day she didn’t deserve what was done to her.

There’s a tension headache manifesting in the middle of Lexi’s forehead. Why is she torturing herself by looking at these photos over and over again?

And by the way—if exposure therapy were real, wouldn’t Lexi be okay with blood by now? In every single day of her job she has to work with blood in some capacity, and yet every time she sees it her hairs stand on end and her stomach clinches. It’s exhausting.

There was a time, before everything that happened, when blood didn’t especially bother her. Now all it takes is a picture or a metallic smell and she can still feel it fresh and sticky on her skin, feel it soaking through her blouse and pants which cling against her skin.

She searches the room to distract herself, and when she sees the wall clock and realizes it’s five to noon she pulls herself back together as best she can. Her weekly check-in with Captain Ali is soon, which she’ll have to do solo this time since Bennett’s missing.

“Special Agent Howard, good to see you,” Captain Ali greets as she enters his office.

“I wrote a debrief of the detective’s and my progress since last Friday,” Lexi explains, handing him a thin stack of papers. “We’re still trying to absorb this latest victim into the rest of the casework, but we’re working on some new leads that could be really promising. Detective Bennett had a theory she was really amped about before—.”

“That’s actually what I’d like to talk to you about today, Agent,” the captain interrupts as he thumbs through Lexi’s debrief.

“Detective Bennett?” she clarifies hesitantly.

The captain nods. “There’s a reason I assigned her as your liaison, Agent. Bennett is the best detective in my precinct and she has the most dynamic mind of any officer I’ve ever met.”

“Is she okay right now?” Lexi’s concern piqued, she can’t help but ask.

“She will be. She has...” He pauses, then speaks slowly as if he’s walking through a verbal mind field. “She has afflictions that make her life very difficult sometimes.” The two sit in a heavy silence for a beat, Lexi contemplating the ambiguity of this statement.

“Her gifts are her curses,” the captain continues. “She’s like an ant: you set her on a task and she will pursue it relentlessly. But in the process of completing that task, unless you remind her to take care of herself, she will work herself to death. She’s fragile—capable, brilliant—but fragile.”

Captain Ali glances down at Lexi’s debrief and back up at her. “As I said, Bennett’s your liaison because she’s a great detective, and because I thought you two might work well together. However, she’s not a team player. I know she can be very challenging to work with. And if she’s more than you want to deal with, I’m happy to assign another liaison.”

Here is Lexi’s escape route. Working with Bennett hasn’t exactly been the experience of a lifetime, especially seeing as they only just started working _together_. Until a few days ago the detective had detested her presence. Even though they’re working as a team now, Lexi still doesn’t completely trust Bennett. Now here’s her chance to get away from the frustration, the drama, the antics that the detective brings in tow.

For all of these perfectly good reasons to request another partner and move on, something still holds her back.

Of all the dozens of liaisons she has worked with in her career, Lexi has never met someone like Detective Bennett. She’s a prism of complicated features—crude and precocious, kind and cruel. There’s something so vulnerable and authentic underneath that tough exterior of hers, a mysterious magnetism pulling Lexi into her orbit. Bennett breaks her heart then fills it up again.

The thought of ditching Bennett for another partner just doesn’t sit right with her. Maybe working with her is challenging, but maybe she’s worth the effort.

“I think I’d rather keep working with Bennett... if that’s alright, Captain.”

Captain Ali looks as surprised by her answer as Lexi.

  
Lexi replays her exchange with the captain over the next few days, Captain Ali’s words echoing in her head.

_She’s fragile—capable, brilliant—but fragile._

_You set her on a task and she will pursue it relentlessly._

_She has afflictions._

_Things are not easy for her._

_If she’s more than you want to deal with…_

Yes, Lexi is worried about the detective. She can admit that now, as strange as this situation is. It’s not like she doesn’t care about who she’s partnered with, but it’s never been her priority. Now, however, it feels like Bennett is claiming most of her attention instead of the case.

Her heart skips a beat when, at 11:18 that morning, she turns around to find Bennett leaning against the doorframe, watching her without saying a word. She’s startled at first by the detective’s appearance: even though she’s only been gone for a few days she looks gaunt and worn.

“Hey...” Lexi lamely greets, because it’s all she can think to say.

“I’m not dead and I wasn’t fired,” the detective grunts back.

“Oh... kay.”

“Have you taken lunch yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s roll, Howard—we’ve got an errand to run.”

* * *

Though Bennett wears nicotine patches on each wrist, the inside of her car reeks of fresh cigarettes. Lexi fights the urge to stick her head out the window for fresh air.

“Catch me up to speed,” Bennett orders, tossing her head back and drinking coffee like it’s a shot.

She’s almost embarrassed to tell the detective what she’s been working on. Bennett will probably think it’s ridiculous—because it is ridiculous, after all. Lexi doesn’t even know why she’s looking into it.

“I have this lead I’ve been working on but it’s kind of a moonshot. I don’t know if it’ll go anywhere…”

“Yeah, disclaimer noted.”

“Someone at Sara Villarreal’s house used that shower the night before she died. And according to the autopsy it wasn’t Sara. Who does that leave us with?”

“The bad guy.”

“Right. And based on how consistent his ritual is, I’m guessing he’s showered at every scene. So I’m having CSI go back to every victim’s shower or bath, swab for DNA and collect drain hairs.”

“Drain hairs?”

“If the same person’s hair is found in multiple showers, we have a suspect to link to multiple scenes.”

Bennett doesn’t speak for a moment, contemplating the hamstrung theory. “You got that from a running faucet and an autopsy report?” she finally asks.

“Like I said, it’s a crazy idea.”

“Right _now_ it’s a crazy idea. If it pans out, then it’ll be a genius idea.”

Did Bennett just... give her a vote of confidence?

Neither speak for the rest of the drive until they pull up to a white concrete row of apartment complexes. As they step out of the car they’re greeted by the distant sounds of dog barks and police sirens. Maybe it’s instinct or maybe plain old common sense, but Lexi has a bad feeling about this.

“Okay, can you please tell me what’s going on?” she groans.

Rue looks around with her hands on her hips. “We’re here to talk to one of my guys. Just a small timer who wants to keep his neighborhood safe. And since he’s a dealer he hears about everything from everybody.”

“So we’re here to talk to a criminal about catching another criminal?”

“I’ve known him for forever. He’s a good guy, Howard. Trust me.”

As usual Lexi doesn’t argue, despite the fact that the detective has dragged her into a potentially dangerous situation without telling her.

For some reason that she can’t logically justify, she trusts Bennett. This is probably going to get her into trouble sooner or later because Bennett isn’t trustworthy, but Lexi’s starting to think she’d follow Bennett to hell and back.

But hell can wait—for now they have an informant to talk to.

She follows Bennett down a walkway to a barred screen door. Bennett knocks and steps back next to Lexi, rocking back and forth on her feet. After a minute the door cracks open and a darkened figure hesitates for a moment from inside.

“Yo, Bennett?” A man with close cropped hair and a neatly trimmed beard opens the door for them. His eyes, light brown and hidden under bushy eyebrows, flit between Lexi and the detective. “What’s up, Youngblood?” he chuckles.

“Fezco, good to see you man,” Bennett replies with a slap on the man’s arm. “This is Howard. We’re, uh... working on something kinda big.”

“Word. That’s what’s up,” he replies as he lets them in.

The wood-paneled apartment looks like it’s been frozen in time since 1977. It’s dark inside, and what little light streams in is filtered through dust. Besides the muffled sound of a TV playing in one of the other rooms, the place is forbiddingly quiet.

Lexi’s about to take a seat on the couch when Fezco reaches between the cushions, the rear sight of a handgun suddenly in view. Though his finger isn’t on the trigger and there’s no round in the chamber, the mere sight of the weapon makes her body jolt with white-hot panic and she automatically moves her hand to her holstered sidearm.

“Shit homie, sorry. Jus’ for protection.” Despite the fact that what just happened could have ended very badly for either of them, Fezco keeps his voice in a slow, easy drawl.

After a moment to process the situation her hand drops from the holster and her eyes drop to the floor. Though the moment has passed, she still can’t shut off the alarms screaming in her head. She doesn’t see Bennett and Fezco glance at each other uncertainly as they take their seats.

Fezco leans back into his recliner and lights a Swisher. “I got a feelin’ you here ‘bout Sara.”

“You knew Miss Villarreal?” Lexi hears herself ask.

“Friend of a friend. I think she sold, too.” He shakes his head sadly. “Didn’t deserve what happened to her, man.”

“The Strangler’s up to almost 20 victims now,” Bennett remarks casually.

“And y’all are gonna catch him?”

“Duh. That’s why we’re here.”

Fez shakes his head again. “Don’t know nothin’ bout it.”

Bennett leans forward with her elbows on her knees. “This guy uses GHB and Rohypnol for his kills—a lot of it. We want to find who’s selling it to him.”

“Shit Bennett, how come you never come over here with nothin’ easy?”

Fezco rubs his scalp, looks around as if making sure his own home is safe. Then he takes a long drag of his cigar and sighs on the exhale.

“I can getchu some names.”

“You’re the fuckin’ man, Fez,” Bennett exclaims as she slaps his knee.

“I’m serious though: none of this comes back to me. Don’t want to hear about it from nobody.”

Lexi is missing this important conversation because she can’t get her damn self together. Why can’t she focus? Or even catch her breath? It’s as if she’s been knocked out of reality.

“Bathroom? Do you have one?” she manages to ask. Fez points to a room down the hall and Lexi retreats.

Once in the bathroom, her priorities are to regain control of her breathing and prevent herself from crying. Though she holds back her tears, she can’t breathe except for shallow gasps.

Her hands and arms feel sticky, her own clothes heavy. She’s aware that this is probably a somatic flashback, but that doesn’t make this any easier to handle.

She steadies herself against the sink and focuses on the senses: what she can hear, see, touch, smell, trying to center herself in the present.

“Howard! We gotta move out. Fez has someone dropping by soon,” Bennett barks through the door.

“Be out in a sec.”

Right now she is in a drug dealer’s house trying to find a damn serial killer—this is not a good time for her brain to throw tantrums. So she splashes water on her face, gulps some air and steps back out to join Bennett at the front door.

“Thanks again man.”

“Jus’... take care of yourself,” Fezco replies in a familiar tone.

As they make their way back to the car, Bennett turns and snaps. “What happened back there?”

“What are you talking about?” Maybe Lexi can just play dumb and this can blow over.

“You just spaced out right in the middle of the conversation. You did the same thing at the Villarreal house.”

They remain in a heavy silence as they climb into Bennett’s car, with Bennett staring at Lexi just as she had on Fezco’s couch. If this is the detective’s method of interrogation it’s not going to work on Lexi, who stares straight ahead and pinches her lips. She says nothing, because saying nothing is better than saying what she wants to say: that Bennett has no right to criticize her consistency after she disappeared with no explanation, leaving Lexi on her own for a whole week.

Lexi’s fuming right now, perhaps even livid. But though it seers her cheeks and quivers her hands and forces her to clinch her teeth, she keeps everything contained. She doesn’t want to cause any more trouble than she already has. She wants to be a good partner and she wants to do her job. Those are the objectives.

“Hello? Howard?” Bennett calls. “You with me?”

“Yeah, I’m with you.” Her voice trembles, defeated and deflated by her own self-control.

Bennett shifts in her seat, looks ahead for a moment and then back at her, opens her mouth then closes it before speaking.

“Are you okay?”

Lexi knows if she talks again her voice will crack, so she only nods in response. God, she’s pathetic.

Appearing extremely uncomfortable with this display of emotion, Bennett looks at her lap and fiddles with her keys, then turns on the ignition.

She knows Bennett’s just trying her best right now, and Lexi still managed to let her down by letting emotion get in the way.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been a better partner. I’ll try harder to stay focused.”

“No, that’s—I’m not saying that. You’re a... a great partner,” Bennett scoffs, though she looks physically pained at having just given a compliment. “I’m just... pointing out a pattern. Of behavior.”

“Do you really want us to compare patterns of behavior?” Lexi lets slip before her reliable filter can stop it.

Bennett gives her a penetrating look that momentarily frightens Lexi, before Bennett’s poker face breaks into a smirk.

“I’ll let that one pass. Next time we’re throwing hands.”

Lexi can only breathe a sigh of relief that Bennett appreciates sass, and the two of them share a laugh that defuses the tension.

Bennett’s laugh is so airy and innocent, striking a completely different tone than her usual hardboiled demeanor. Those shimmering hazel eyes and the way the corners of her eyes crinkle when she laughs—it catches Lexi’s breath and makes her heart flutter.

Then Bennett throws her arm around the back of the passenger seat and leans her body around to pull out of the parking spot, so close to Lexi that she can smell the detective’s coffee breath. By default her heart starts to race and her muscles tense.

“Okay butthead, let’s get back to work. Fezco’s guy is going to send us some names.”

It’s only when Bennett finishes backing out and settles back into the driver’s seat, that Lexi lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.


	7. Prove It

In case you haven’t noticed by now, Rue has sort of an obsession with figuring stuff out. 

Growing up, she was an inquisitive kid who knew every mystery contained a question, and every question demanded an answer. Answers that she needed to know. So from the time she could talk she peppered her parents with constant queries on topics from the banal to the existential. 

She got older and smarter, and soon she was asking questions that even her parents didn’t know the answer to. So Rue started finding the answers herself, and quickly realized that she was pretty adept at figuring shit out. What started as a tendency became a hobby, and then a habit, and then an obsession. 

After her dad passed, she filled the gaping void by taking on investigations full-time. By the time she got to high school Rue was making hundreds of dollars a month solving every mystery East Highland had to offer: who smeared poop all over the wall in the east wing men’s restroom? Who started the rumor that Tanya Sheffield lost her virginity to Marcus Wiley’s dad? Who gave seven different people herpes at Vance Navarro’s end-of-summer party?

When Jules arrived during junior year, she quickly became the sounding board for Rue’s ideas and theories. They were partners in crime(solving), enjoined at the hip from the first time they laid eyes on each other and Rue fell deeply, madly in love.

Back then Jules was amused by Rue’s obsessiveness, treating it more like a quirk than a debilitation. And maybe it really was just a quirk or funny habit in those days. Jules was the rare person who fully understood her, who didn’t think of her as weaker for her eccentricities. That’s why Jules was so supportive when Rue decided she wanted to become a detective. A career in law enforcement wasn’t Jules’ first choice for her partner, but she accepted Rue’s decision because she knew that Rue was following her passion. 

That was back before obsessiveness became Rue’s overriding instinct, forming her alcoholism and seizing her with corrosive paranoia. Slowly but surely, this volatile cocktail of addiction and illness drove everyone away like Rue was an explosive rigged to blow. It started with her friends, though Rue never had many to begin with. Then her mom and Gia apparently decided the burden was too great. Then finally Jules was gone too. 

At that point Rue had been on the verge of a break for quite some time. Jules’ departure was the push that sent Rue over the ledge. Rue was still blindsided. Even in the throes of her self-doubt and self-hatred she never anticipated that Jules, her rock for over a decade, would walk out. 

_“It’s what’s best for both of us.”_

Even now, months after the fact, Rue still can’t believe Jules said that shit to her. Jules has never been one for cliche, and using such a rehearsed line only drove in deeper the idea that Rue was no longer worth the effort of a proper explanation. 

At least Jules leaving clarified one thing for Rue: everyone, no matter how good they seem, will inevitably leave. In the wake of abandonment, the only thing that remains is the immediate and tangible. There will always be the mysteries yet to be unraveled, questions yet to be unanswered. Maybe she couldn’t trust anyone else, but she could trust in the questions unanswered. 

* * *

Following a Rue Bennett lead requires some sacrifices. First, you can forget about a personal life since you’ll be working at least 12 hours a day, seven days a week. Actual meals aren’t an option either, since they take too long to eat. And caffeine is essential because feeling tired is just a distraction.

Rue’s lead, Rue’s rules—that’s how she’s always seen it.

This philosophy hasn’t endeared her to most (all) of Rue’s past partners, but Howard doesn’t complain. In fact, Rue’s enjoying her partner’s company. Though Rue was skeptical of Howard after her display at Fez’s, the agent has kept up with Rue so far and even proven herself useful.

They spend a couple of hours a day in the office running background checks, but most of their time is spent in Bennett’s car, crisscrossing the city to find and question every dealer on Fezco’s list.

This is the part of her job that Rue loves the most—throwing herself into the case with abandon, completely losing herself and, at least for a few minutes, forgetting about Jules or liquor or any of the other demons. Because this is what Rue is good at.

You wouldn’t think that a couple of girl cops would be able to hunt down and size up some of the most notorious drug dealers in the city, but Rue’s effective interrogation style earns results. Rue is tall but not exactly physically imposing. So she makes up for it the same way that a pufferfish tricks predators: she bullshits her way into appearing a lot more intimidating that she actually is. She starts out casual, then catches them off guard, gets into their personal space, and threatens them with some freaky torture shit involving their penises. Because the absolute, guaranteed most effective way to terrify a man is to threaten their genitals.

At this point the subject is completely caught up in the moment and scared shitless, allowing the partners to question them on their sales to suspicious individuals—specifically very tall white men with dark-colored hair and pointy chins.

Well, Rue questions them. Howard stands off to the side and plays good cop as need be, since she isn’t exactly imposing like Rue. Still, it’s an effective dynamic that yields a lot of new potential suspects. Back at the precinct, they forge ahead in investigating each lead, cutting quickly through the helpful and unhelpful intel yielded from their interrogations.

As they chase lead after lead the hours grow longer and the pace even more grueling. Yet Rue can’t stop. She’s close to finding her man now, closer than they ever have been, and she won’t—can’t—stop until she does.

* * *

“Hey Casper,” Hernandez calls from the doorway, taking a casual sip of a Frappuccino. “Captain’s looking for you. He didn’t sound too happy.”

Rue slowly raises her head up from her scribbled notes like she’s tearing herself away from her deep concentration. “This should be fun.”

“Hang in there, dude,” Hernandez shrugs with a sympathetic smile.

After taking a moment to collect herself, Rue heads into the captain’s office wearing her best poker face. When she enters Ali doesn’t acknowledge her at first, just keeps reading the newspaper. Rue resorts to counting ceiling tiles while she waits for him to speak.

After an eternity, he takes a couple sips of coffee before setting the paper down and finally speaking. “Bennett,” he greets flatly, looking her over closely like he’s inspecting her for defects.

“Captain,” she replies while trying to mimic his tone. “What am I in trouble for?”

“Correct me if I have this wrong—you are interrogating dealers, in their _own homes,_ for _confidential_ leads, about the city’s worst serial killer since the Grim Sleeper?”

“That’s... mostly accurate.”

“Jesus Christ, Bennett,” he growls as he rubs his hands over his face. “You’re leaving behind a mess the size of the San Andreas Fault.”

Ignoring the corny reference, Rue moves quickly to defend herself. “We have 36 credible new leads for the Strangler, all of them extracted from dealers. I bet Perez and Johnson never had 36 leads in the whole time they worked this case.”

“Why did you not bring them into the precinct, have them recorded? Follow the procedure?”

“Of course I recorded the interrogations. There’s a full paper trail. And I’m not revealing any sensitive information during the questioning. It’s not like I’m asking them, ‘Hey, do you know the Strangler?’”

Ali stares at her with a blank, unchanging expression, shifts his jaw and waits for her to continue.

“Look, if I kindly request their presence at the precinct and politely ask who they’re dealing to, they’re not gonna tell me shit. So I have to do some ‘stuff’ that’s not in the training manual. That’s how you get results.”

“I am well aware of your unorthodox style. I’ve had to explain it to the conduct board enough times that I could write the book on it,” the captain replies, his voice low and gravely. “But this... this is what I was afraid of when I brought you back.”

“What, that I’d do my job? Get results?”

“No—that you’d revert back to how you were three months ago. You’re acting reckless, you’re not moderating yourself. And we have already seen where this leads you.”

“Three months ago was different,” Rue retorts, her voice high and pleading. “I’d just lost Jules, I was still drinking. I mean, I was a wreck. Now look at me!” She raises her arms up as if to demonstrate how much better she is now.

The captain looks her up and down and raises his eyebrows at Rue. She hasn’t showered in two weeks and there’s a coffee stain on her shirt, so this might not be her most convincing argument.

“Go talk to Dr. Harmon. Soon,” he orders.

“Really? Seriously?”

Her reply has barely left her mouth before she realizes she’s overstepped. The captain’s eyes narrow, his patience exhausted. “I need not remind you, Detective, that you are here on probationary terms. Your conduct during this investigation will directly affect whether or not you return to this department in full capacity.”

Captain Ali rarely grows so stern with Rue, but when he does, he knows how to cut right through her.

She nods quickly, her fight gone. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll make an appointment.” Even as she apologizes she can’t bring her eyes to meet the captain’s.

“I hope you understand the source of my concern,” Ali adds, his tone mellowing. “This is about more than your career. A career is not worth the personal cost it may extract from you.”

Rue looks at Ali quizzically. “It’s not like it’s one or the other. I can be healthy and have a career.”

The captain leans closer to her, his eyes shining. “Prove it. I want you to prove it to me. But more importantly, prove it to yourself.”


	8. Hell Theory

When it comes to investigating her partners’ leads, Lexi doesn’t like to complain about their tactics or their work style. She’s found that it’s better to duck her head and get out of their way.

Most of her previous partners, however, didn’t push themselves and their partners to the physical limits of human endurance.

Whether they’re traversing the city in search of leads or researching at the precinct, Bennett is a hard taskmaster. She constantly cross-checks and questions Lexi’s work, forcing the agent to dig even deeper. As the work grows harder, the hours grow longer and Bennett even more demanding.

For all of the work that Lexi is putting in, however, Bennett is doing even more. The detective is already hard at work when Lexi comes to the precinct in the morning, and she’s still there when Lexi goes home at night. Bennett’s had a new urgency to her work ever since her conversation with Captain Ali, which likely means that the detective’s under pressure to get results.

On this particular Tuesday afternoon the detective looks especially worse for wear. As they review a background check for one of their suspects, Lexi notices that Bennett has been reading the same pages for a while now. She’ll read a page, turn it over, then go back and read it again as if she’s lost the ability to retain this information.

Lexi watches the detective struggle to keep her head up, as it keeps drooping like her neck is having trouble managing the weight. She recalls what Captain Ali had told her about Bennett not knowing when to stop. Bennett either can’t read her own body’s signals to stop and rest, or she or chooses to ignore them.

How long has Bennett kept herself locked in this room, Lexi wonders. Has she been sleeping here? When was the last time she had a hot meal?

“Let’s go get something to eat,” Lexi posits, hoping to lure the detective outside for a break.

Bennett doesn’t even look up from her work. “I’ve got some more stuff to do. You go ahead.”

“Ah come on, don’t make me go by myself.”

“No way, we don’t have time.”

“It won’t take that long. Half an hour? 45 minutes max?”

“We’ll just get something delivered,” Bennett sighs, flashing the agent a weird look as she picks up her phone.

“Seriously, let’s take a break. Get some fresh air and hot food.”

“Well I can at least drive, my car’s—.”

“Why would we waste gas or pay more to have it delivered?” Lexi goes off, her voice high and squeaking in exasperation. “There’s four perfectly good pairs of legs between us. We’re gonna go get food and we’re gonna walk to get there.”

“Okay, okay! Jesus Christ, Howard,” Bennett relents as he grabs a stack of papers. “I’m taking work with me, though.”

When they step outside, the detective wraps her arms around herself and squints like she hasn’t seen the sunlight in years. The sidewalk is a jarring change of scenery from the conference room, its busy streets packed with pedestrians making their way past the partners. The overwhelming noises of traffic and crowds and construction swallow them with honking, yelling and shouting, and the clattering sounds of a nearby jackhammer.

When the stench of port-a potty and car exhaust wafts past, Lexi grimaces and Bennett smiles. “That’s the smell of an advanced civilization, Howard.”

“Do advanced civilizations still have people pooping in the street?”

“It would appear so.”

They walk in silence, letting the city bustle around them as they move in-step. Somewhere along the walk their arms brush together, but to Lexi’s surprise Bennett doesn’t recoil at the touch. In these moments, Lexi thinks, there’s something so peaceful and pensive about the detective. Almost like she’s enervated by the chaos around her. Her face, usually so stormy, calms to an easy grin and her perpetually furrowed brow relaxes.

They sit on the patio and try to soak up the sunlight as they enjoy their takeout. Bennett wipes the grease off her fingers with a napkin, then pulls out the papers she brought with her and tries to dive back into the casework.

“No working and eating,” Lexi reminds her, flipping the detective’s own rule against her.

“It’s different now. There’s a serial killer out here, time is of the essence.”

“That’s why you need to take a break and get your mind off things. It’s like when you’re doing a puzzle, and when you walk away and come back you see things differently.”

“Fine,” Bennett grumbles, slipping the papers back into her bag. “What do you want to talk about then?”

“I don’t know...” Lexi chews her lip as she plots the best approach in getting the detective to open up. “Tell me one random fact about yourself.”

“You’re acting weird today,” Bennett frowns as she shakes her head. “Are you on jumpers?”

“What? Do I need to be high to want to have a conversation with you?” she replies with a bemused grin.

Bennett leans back and crosses her arms. “I’ve found that most people do.”

“Ah, come on. It’s… team bonding,” Lexi shrugs, trying to play herself off as casual.

It’s clearly not working. Bennett stares Lexi down, deconstructing Lexi right in front of her and making the agent want to wither away.

“Did Ali talk to you?”

“Captain Ali? Talk to me?”

Bennett keeps her gaze on Lexi, tilting her head as her eyes narrow again. “You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?” Lexi tries to sound clueless but she’s a bad liar—Bennett can see right through her.

“About the…” Bennett hesitates as she rubs the back of her neck. “About some of my recent behavior.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware—.”

“Cut the bullshit, Howard,” Bennett snaps. She fixes her gaze to look out of the window for an uncomfortable beat of silence, a somber look in her eyes. “Who told you?” she finally asks.

Lexi’s eyes drop to the floor, her chest tightening as she feels the full weight of guilt. “Maddy... may have brought it up at happy hour,” she confesses.

“What? Brought up what?”

“All of it.”

“What is ‘all of it’? The suspension?”

“Yeah, that. And the drinking. And also, uh… your… ex-wife.”

Bennett says nothing, just runs her fingers through her hair and holds her head in her hands. She breathes out a dry, humorous laugh. “That fuckin’ figures, doesn’t it? That’s just fucking perfect. I’m just never gonna get to move on. Real nice.”

The tense silence hangs between them, with Bennett still cradling her head in her hands. If she weren’t in public Lexi would slap herself across her face right now. She deserves it—she’s a bad agent and a bad partner.

But Bennett is sitting there, despairing, waiting for a reply.

“Look, whatever happened with your job and your wife...” Lexi starts off before stopping herself, licking her lips and considering her words carefully. “Whatever happened, it’s not my business. I just, I… I didn’t want you to burn out again. For the sake of the case.”

Bennett is pensive as she processes these words, looks at Lexi then looks away as she pops her knuckles. “I can respect that,” she finally says. Then her expression finally softens. “I’m a night owl,” she adds in a low voice. She meets Lexi’s eyes again then quickly looks down at her hands. “That’s… that’s my fun fact,” Bennett clarifies. “I’m a night owl.”

Lexi laughs a little, thrown by the abrupt change of subject. “I think I already knew that.”

“Still counts. Your turn.”

Lexi studies her partner, who appears eager to shift the subject off of herself. The detective fidgets with her knuckles, looks to anything around her but Lexi.

“Okay, here’s my fun fact,” Lexi volunteers with a wry smile. “I did roller derby in college.”

“No fuckin’ way. Agent Howard, a derby girl?” Bennett shouts as she matches Lexi’s smile.

“You know, I wish I could say it was for a good reason like extra income, but I actually lost a lot of money doing it. I did it because I like skating. It was a lot of fun.”

“I’m just trying to picture you in that uniform, rolling around, knocking bitches out.” Bennett punches her hands together in mock fighting.

“You know what my nickname was?” With Bennett hanging on her every word, Lexi pauses for suspense.

“ _Homewrecker_.”

The first time Bennett laughs in front of her, Lexi is utterly spellbound. Her laugh is sudden, loud, and honest, so at odds with the steely facade the detective usually presents. When Bennett loses herself in the moment she becomes a different person, revealing a version of herself that doesn’t have to bear the heavy burden she always carries.

“Were you any good?” Bennett manages to ask as her laughter calms into intermittent giggles.

“Well, talent is relative. But yeah, I’d say I was pretty good.”

“One of these days you’re gonna have to show me some pictures.”

Lexi can’t help but blush at the idea that Bennett wants to see pictures of her—god, she’s pathetic. “Hey, your turn,” she prompts as she nudges the detective’s leg under the table.

Bennett takes a moment to search her mind for another fun fact to offer up. “Okay. I have a… a crippling fear of carnival rides.”

“Carnival rides like—?”

“Ferris wheels, go karts, tilt-a-whirls,” she trails off. “I don’t know, I just have this feeling that if I ever ride one there’s gonna be a freak accident and it’ll kill me.” Bennett looks at the floor and back up again, scoffing lightly as if she’s embarrassed by her admission. “Probably sounds like I’m nuts.”

“No, I get it,” Lexi reassures. “I have a similar thing with cars. It’s why I don’t drive.”

“So that’s what your weird anti-car thing is about?”

Lexi’s not sure if she’s ready to unpack this trauma, considering its formidable weight. But Bennett wants an answer, so she takes a deep breath.

“My dad got in a really bad car wreck when I was in high school and...” She swallows thickly, wonders if she’s wading in too far with this conversation. And yet, despite herself, she keeps talking. “Whenever I get behind the wheel now I just have this mental image of my dad’s car hitting the guard rail and flipping onto its nose over and over again. It just freaks me out too much.”

Bennett nods slowly as she digests this information, then takes her questioning in a direction that Lexi didn’t expect: “Did he survive it? The crash?”

There’s no easy answer, no straightforward response Lexi can give that doesn’t minimize the impact of that damn wreck on her dad’s life. And her own. As the faded memories roll back into her mind—the Saturday trips to the ice cream shop, the awkward conversations, the track marks down his forearm—she draws in a jagged breath.

“Howard?”

When Lexi realizes she’s been lost in thought for quite some time, she recovers with a quick response. “Yeah, he survived. But he never really recovered. It... It messed him up.”

“How old were you?”

“When he crashed the car I was fourteen. And I was fifteen when he disappeared.”

A heavy silence sits between them as they contemplate the weight of this revelation.

She knows this conversation is too personal, that she shouldn’t be discussing these things with her partner. But there’s something about the way Bennett is looking at her in this moment with a mix of understanding and heartache. Though the detective doesn’t say as much, Lexi knows that Bennett is all too familiar with this experience—the personal hell of losing your dad before you’ve really grown up.

“We should, um, we should get going soon,” Lexi finally suggests, breaking the silence.

Bennett purses her lips and nods, brought back to reality by Lexi’s voice. “Yeah. Right. The case.”

Well, at least Lexi had successfully gotten Bennett’s mind off the case. All she had to do in the process was dredge up the painful past.

* * *

Lexi almost always goes to bed with a documentary playing in the background, the soothing narration providing ambience as she falls asleep. But tonight she’s wide awake. Her conversation with Bennett, everything said and unsaid, repeats in Lexi’s mind like a skipping record player.

She stretches and folds her hands behind her head, stares at the ceiling and begins to count the ceiling fan’s rotations as it slowly spins.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...

Maybe Lexi actually did die two years ago, and now she’s living out her punishment in hell. That would explain why, for the past two years, her life has been more or less in frozen in stasis. The punishment from hell theory would also explain why she’s been partnered with Bennett.

14, 15, 16, 17, 18...

That wasn’t meant to disparage Bennett, a great investigator and a decent partner. But Bennett also scares the hell out of her. Lexi never ever talks about her father, yet Bennett was able to crack her open in a matter of minutes without even really trying. And considering Lexi has more skeletons in her closet, she’s shaken by the idea that Bennett can unravel her so easily.

27, 28, 29, 30...

The detective’s interrogation skills are even better than Lexi previously estimated. Turns out Captain Ali was right. For all her ‘eccentricities,’ Bennett is great at what she does.

35, 36, 37, 38...

Of course, the captain also told her that Bennett’s a tortured soul, that she’s one unsolvable case away from another breakdown. And according to her coworkers, Bennett’s an icy asshole whose mania is outdone only by her alcoholism.

44, 45, 46...

Yet neither description does her justice. She’s not just crazy, cruel, or broken, and contrary to what Maddy Perez thinks she’s not a bitch—she’s a good person who makes mistakes. But at her core, Bennett is no better or worse than anyone who judges her.

57, 58, 59...

What Lexi sees in Detective Bennett is a strange and complicated and remarkable person. Behind her mask she’s a prism of complexity, every encounter presenting a compelling new side of herself that Lexi hasn’t yet seen.

Bennett has revealed her good to Lexi in phases. Lexi saw it the first time the detective wasn’t cruel to her; each time they each opened up to each other over food; and the first moment Bennett displayed real joy in that shining, crooked-tooth smile of hers. And that first laugh, still fresh on Lexi’s mind.

74, 75...

Lexi closes her eyes to stop herself from counting the rotations, recalling that brief moment she and Bennett shared in the victim’s bathroom. She sees the detective’s shimmering hazel eyes so close to her own. She sees her lips: lush, supple, curved into a teasing smile that beckons Lexi closer.

Her body warms and tingles at the memory. It starts in her face and throat, moves down into the middle of her chest, further down into her gut, down, down down…

She catches herself here, eyes popping open at this inappropriate sensation. Why is she thinking so much about her partner? And her lips?

But that warmth is still there, stoked like a smoldering fire just by the thought of Bennett.

“Oh my god...” she hears herself say aloud.

Is this... Is this a _crush_?

The moment this idea occurs to her she immediately dismisses it out of hand. Not that she’s homophobic, as she fully supports the right for everyone to be who they are. But that’s just not who Lexi is. She’s never had feelings for another woman—because she’s not gay.

After all, this question was already answered for her in college. Once at a frat party her then-best friend, Sophie, French kissed Lexi so that a leering frat dude would leave Sophie alone (ironically, this only intensified frat dude’s efforts). The whole experience made Lexi feel uncomfortable, so based on how much she hated kissing Sophie, Lexi clearly is not gay.

And for god’s sake, Lexi doesn’t even know her partner’s first name.


	9. Follow the Ribbon

When she’d started on this new lead, Rue was almost certain she was close to catching the Strangler. So close she could smell him. But one-by-one, every lead gleaned from their interrogations has evaporated under further investigation and scrutiny.

Sure, this outcome is disheartening in any case. You never want to spend weeks of effort on leads and see it count for nothing. But this isn’t ‘any case’—this is a notorious serial killer responsible for the deaths of almost twenty women. And if Rue can’t find him, if she can’t prove herself again, then her career is over. Captain Ali has already said as much.

The sun has long since set as the duo pull up to a low-rise brick house on the edge of town, taking in its ramshackle appearance. Everything she’s done, that she’s work so hard on over the last week, has led them to this point.

“Well, this Cam Mathison guy’s our last lead. If this doesn’t go anywhere we’re officially fucked,” Rue concedes as she looks at the ominous structure before them.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to show up this late?” Howard asks nervously.

“What’s the worst that can happen? They’ll start shooting at us?”

“I mean, yeah, that would be the worst thing. Especially if we only have one weapon between us.”

Rue hangs her head but tries not to take Howard’s comment personally, since she knows the agent didn’t mean it as a dig. It’s not Howard’s fault that Rue can’t carry a sidearm since she hasn’t been officially reinstated. But she still feels weaker without a weapon, almost defenseless.

“We’ll be fine,” Rue shrugs. “Haven’t had any problems yet, why start now?”

Howard looks like she wants to push back against Rue, but instead concedes with a hesitant nod. As Rue checks the carport, Howard peeks into one of the front windows. “Um, I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” the agent stammers. Rue joins Howard at the window and looks inside.

Now, Rue has seen a lot of weird shit in her career. It’s just part of being a cop. But what she’s looking at now is something she definitely hasn’t seen before. The house is abandoned, completely empty except for an older man sitting in a beanbag chair in the middle of the room. He’s passed out cold in his underwear, lit cigarette still in hand. A disco ball on the floor illuminates the room in a spinning rainbow strobe, providing the only light.

“What the fuck is going on in there?”

Howard can’t take her eyes off of the scene, just shakes her head. “Either something really sad or really scary.”

“I don’t think we’re gonna get in a gunfight tonight.”

“Save it for the car ride home,” Howard mutters with side eye.

“Well,” Rue sighs, “let’s go talk to him.”

Rue attempts to pick the lock on the front door before she realizes that it’s already unlocked. Already off to a great start.

Once inside, Howard draws her sidearm and moves to clear the rest of the house while Rue goes straight for the subject. The first thing she clocks is the needle jutting out of the unconscious man’s arm.

“Wake up buddy!” Rue shouts as she slaps old guy’s face. He stirs a little and gurgles, and Rue winces at the waft of liquor-soaked breath that comes off of him. She takes the cigarette out of his hand and stomps it into the carpet. “Hey, wake up!”

His glassy eyes blink open and he looks around uncertainly. “Sir, my cigarette has been confiscated,” he slurs up to her.

“Are you Cameron Mathison?”

He starts to nod off, so she kicks him in the ribs just hard enough that he wakes back up.

“Hey, wake up. Are you Cam Mathison?”

“No sir! My name is Virgil and I am in lawful possession of this property.”

“Yeah, good. OK.” Rue leans over with her hands on her knees so she’s eye level with him. “Do you know Cameron Mathison? Know where he might be?”

She's met with silence as the squatter nods in and out of consciousness.

Howard emerges from the hall, gripping her gun tightly as she lowers her arms from a ready position. "The house is completely empty. I don’t think anyone’s lived here for months."

Rue's immediately distracted by the sight of Howard wielding her sidearm, which strikes her with an odd sense of attraction. She’s not a gun nut by any means, but there’s something special about the way Howard looks with a gun in hand. She looks the smaller woman up and down, fully appreciating her commanding presence.

The agent breaks Rue's trance as she joins the detective at her side, holsters her weapon, looks down at old guy and furrows her brow. “Is he ODing?”

“No. He’s just really fucking high.”

“Sir, please return my cigarette,” he requests as he smacks his lips. “This house is... I bought... after my wife Gloria kicked me out. That bitch Gloria.”

Rue stares at this pathetic figure before her. This is where all of her work—her many days of research and interrogation, of blood and sweat, of dead end after dead end, has gotten her—to the physical manifestation of failure.

“This is just some fucking homeless junkie. Our lead’s long gone,” she says in a low voice as she hangs her head. She turns and leaves without another glance at old guy.

“That was… disturbing,” Howard finally says once they’re back at the car. She pauses for Rue’s reply, but Rue just sits in sullen quiet, so Howard continues. “We should recheck housing records. You can put out an APB, or I can call in some favors with my office—.”

“You and I have... we have no good justification to continue this,” Rue cuts her off. “This whole idea, going after the dealer to find the Strangler... it was a stretch at best.”

Howard doesn’t argue with her, probably because she knows Rue is right. They’re out of options on Rue’s theory. The trail ends here.

It’s late into the evening, and yet the partners can’t think of anywhere to go but back to the precinct. Howard spends the drive calling anonymous tips on old guy to LAFD and local EMS, rambling something to Rue about how he deserves at least one more chance to get clean. 

Rue tunes her out. She’s operating on autopilot, her mind consumed with a horrible reality—that she has nothing to show but bad intel and dead ends for her weeks of work.

Her career is fucked. She’s finished as a detective.

Soon, maybe within the week, Captain Ali will call her into his office and formally dismiss her. Not like she was ever officially back since this was all probationary, anyway. But now the door back in is shut and locked, never to be reopened.

Her job had been her world, especially after Jules left. She has no one besides a family who still (rightfully) resents her. Her drinking, her obsessions, and her workaholism destroyed her marriage, her career, her credibility.

So what more does Rue have to lose at this point?

* * *

“Fuck!” Rue slams the door to the conference room in frustration, tossing her backpack and jacket on the floor as she paces around the room. She can feel the agent’s eyes on her, saying nothing but watching warily. She hates being observed like she’s an animal at the zoo.

Rue pulls her hair into a messy bun on top of her head to try to cool the heat rising in her. The conference room is a claustrophobic space even on a good day, and right now it’s downright suffocating. She can feel the fluorescence beating down on her, the taupe walls moving closer like they’re boxing her in.

Because everything really is closing in on Rue: she’s lost her abilities, and when Captain Ali realizes this he’ll decide she can’t come back for good. When she loses her job she will have lost everything. She will have nothing left. Nothing.

“Bennett? You okay?” she faintly hears Howard ask from somewhere nearby.

And then, as has happened so many times before, Rue forgets how breathing works. First her brain goes numb, then her legs. She feels her lungs shrivel and her chest squeeze as the air is sucked out of the room.

She’s aware that Howard is asking her something, and though the words doesn’t really register Rue nods. She feels the agent’s touch on her back, guiding her to the corner of the room where they slide down the wall until they sit on the floor, slightly across from each other.

While all this is happening Rue’s mind is elsewhere, in some faraway, terrifying place inaccessible even to Rue herself. Until then, she’s locked out of the real world, resigned to watching herself like she’s in a movie.

Her first contact back to reality is the feeling of the old, worn carpet underneath her fingers. She sees Howard’s eyes locked with hers, hears the agent demonstrating deep, slow breaths. Following Howard’s lead, Rue slowly regains control as her lungs allow oxygen back in.

Scrambling for cover, she summons the best excuse she can think of at the moment: “I think I—I had a—a hot—flash.”

“Yeah,” Howard bobs her head in agreement, though she clearly doesn’t believe her.

Rue’s mind swirls with anxiety, frightened by the vulnerability of her current situation. Because Howard has just witnessed a critical weakness—one that can be weaponized, that leaves Rue dangerously vulnerable.

“I don’t need—need you to take care of me. I’m f-fine.”

“Okay.”

“Okay so fucking g-go away, then,” Rue growls, though she falls short of intimidating since she can’t even speak properly.

Howard’s eyes drop to the floor as she nods and bites her lip, saying nothing. Rue feels a pang of guilt for having snapped at her partner, even if it’s for her own good. She almost resents the way Howard lets herself be treated like a punching bag, like Howard doesn’t think she’s worth defending.

And yes, it’s irrational to blame Howard when Rue is the one treating her badly, but it’s for the agent’s own good. By pushing Howard away Rue’s protecting her. Howard can’t afford to get close to Rue because Rue will break her. Just like Jules. Just like everyone else who comes into contact with Rue.

But then Rue sees the hurt in her partner’s face, and her dormant empathy overrides her instinct to push the agent away. If Rue didn’t know any better, she might think Howard is genuinely worried about her.

“I’m sorry,” Rue stammers, rubbing her fingers deeper into the carpet to try and distract herself from the tension she’s created.

Howard doesn’t reply at first, allowing a beat of silence just long enough for Rue to wonder if she’s gone too far and pushed her partner away for good. Then, in her own quiet way of accepting the apology, Howard leans forward and hands her a bottle of water. Rue holds the Evian bottle in her hands and stares down at the label, reminded of the times when she used to fill these bottles with vodka so she could drink at work. She could sure use some of that right now.

“What a fucking shit show these last few weeks have been,” Rue mutters, trying to divert Howard’s focus away from her.

“Does something about all this feel off to you? Like we’re not seeing everything that’s really happening?” Howard questions as she leans back against the wall.

Rue takes a swig of water and sighs. “This is the weirdest shit I’ve ever worked, Howard.” She thinks over the last few weeks and how horrible and wonderful they’ve been, a strange anomaly of her long, steady decline.

“I’m fucked,” she starts to chuckle, which grows into a steady laugh. “I’m utterly fucked.” Howard already knows Rue is crazy, but right now she probably thinks Rue has gone verifiably insane.

That familiar sense of loss, almost an old friend at this point, envelopes her with its accompanying distress and sorrow. Almost signaling that she’s moving into the next stage of mourning over officially losing everything. Eventually the laughter dies down, but the searing pain underneath remains.

“I might as well resign tomorrow.”

“I didn’t think you were the type to give up that easily.”

Rue turns and looks at Howard, surprised by the agent’s quiet challenge. Deep down she knows Howard’s right to call Rue out for wanting to quit. But Howard doesn’t understand, does she? She doesn’t know how far life has pushed Rue down already, how far of a low point Rue has reached to make her even consider giving up.

She’s still searching for a reply, still struggling to ground herself when Howard’s voice anchors her back to the present.

“Remember that forest in Japan you told me about? The one with all the… the suicides?”

Rue rolls her head to face Howard. Her mouth is dry and her brain exhausted, so she just nods.

“You know how some people who go off the main trail to camp—or do something worse— well, how they tie a ribbon from the trail so others can find them?”

Rue nods again, unsure of what Howard is getting after but listening closely.

“The other night I watched a documentary about volunteers who go into the forest and try to find those people and talk to them, get them some help.” Howard swallows thickly and licks her lips, considering the subject’s heaviness as she speaks. “So they go into the forest every day and follow those ribbons, knowing that they’re probably gonna find someone dead or dying at the end of it. But they follow the ribbon anyway. They have to try to help.”

Howard pauses, looks at Rue then looks away. She opens her mouth and hesitates, then continues. “Maybe what I’m trying to say is… I think, for better or for worse, that’s us—always following the ribbon. Even when we already know it’s gonna be tragic. Because if we don’t try, everything that’s happened up to now, all the bad stuff… what will it all have been for?”

Rue looks at Howard, really studies her as she talks. She looks wistful by the end of her monologue, as if alluding to something Rue doesn’t know about and something they both understand.

In what she intends as a significant gesture of respect for the agent, Rue pats her shoulder. “That’s pretty fuckin’ deep, Howard.”

“I have my moments.”

They sigh at the same time, though neither acknowledge this as they settle into a comfortable silence. Rue frowns when she turns and sees Howard chewing her fingernails. “Stop that,” she orders as she grabs Howard’s wrist. “Bad habit.”

“You’re one to talk about bad ha—.”

Howard’s retort is cut off when Rue leans over and slaps her cheek gently.

“What was that for?”

“I told you the next time you gave me sass, I wasn’t gonna let it slide.”

These long quiet pauses between them should be awkward, but Howard makes them strangely comfortable. Usually in situations like this, Rue feels the need to fill the dead air with her ramblings. But with Howard she can let go of her pretenses, just exist in this moment without worrying about coming undone. 

“What’s next?” Howard finally asks, breaking the silence.

“Let’s just hope your drain hair theory pans out. For both our sakes.”

Howard groans in frustration at the reminder. “I forgot about my own lead. That’s how long it’s taking to test those hair samples.”

“Typical for state testing labs.”

“It’s been weeks since I sent it in. What’s the date again?” Howard mutters as she leans forward and pulls her phone out of her back pocket. When Howard looks down at the home screen Rue watches as her face falls ashen, though she quickly conceals herself. “I—I should get home,” she murmurs as she stands up.

“You just gave a whole speech about not giving up and ‘following the ribbon’ and two minutes later you’re going home?”

“I could give you another speech about how important it is to give your body some rest every now and then.”

“Yeah yeah,” Rue scoffs. “Go get your beauty sleep.”

Howard’s cheeks pinken and she drops her head to the floor as she turns to leave.

“Hey,” Rue pipes up to regain Howard’s attention. Then she musters all the sincerity she can: “Thanks, Howard.”

Howard lingers in the doorway, looking over her shoulder with her mouth open like she’s struggling to find something to say. “Please take care of yourself, Bennett,” she finally murmurs. “Get some sleep tonight.”

And then she’s gone, the conference room suddenly and unnervingly empty.

 _“Please_ _take care of yourself, Bennett.”_

Howard’s words echo in Rue’s brain, striking her as eerily similar to Fez’s parting words. But why would Howard even care? After all, she understands why Fez would be worried about her, since they practically grew up together. In fact, he probably knows the most about her out of anyone in her life, save for her mom or Gia.

_“First you up and disappeared for a few months. That shit had me scared somethin’ bad happened to you, bruh,” Fez confessed through a drag of his Swisher. “Then you hit me up to say you gonna was come through and you didn’t show. Now you drop by outta nowhere.”_

_“Yeah, I haven’t really been… operating on a schedule,” Rue explained. Which wasn’t technically a lie, because she never knows when she’s going to have one of her depressive episodes._

_“I’m jus’ wonderin’ if you’re okay.”_

_She swallowed thickly, wanting to be honest with her friend without making herself vulnerable. “Let’s talk later. Off-book.”_

_“Bet.” Fez nodded and took another long, cool drag of his cigar. “Hey, uh… I’ve got someone coming by soon.”_

_Rue turned around to the bathroom door and sighed. “Time to deal with whatever’s going on in there.”_

She gets up off the floor and goes, literally, back to the Drawing Board, taking in the mass of information on the wall that she and Howard tacked up over their weeks of working together. If the new additions to the Drawing Board are any indication, she and Howard have actually accomplished quite a lot.

Okay, maybe in retrospect Rue has been too hard on Howard.

Her eyes drift to a pink sticky note with near-perfect handwriting, a comment which Howard left under a picture of their witness in the Sara Villarreal case. 

_Witness: Barbara “BB” Burke_

_Refused to provide official statement_

Witnesses and witness statements have been equally frustrating and fruitless for the investigation. BB is just the most recent in a pattern of unhelpful or non-cooperative witnesses—almost an uncanny amount considering the number of homicides.

They’re missing something, and Rue reckons that if she can figure out what they’re missing, maybe everything else can come together.

Howard was right—Rue’s found a new ribbon.


	10. Lessons in Cynicism and Selfishness

It’s the first time in ages that Lexi is actually home in bed at a reasonable hour, and she can’t even enjoy it. How could she ditch Bennett to work by herself after the poor woman had a panic attack? What kind of partner does that? What kind of _person_ does that?

She looks at the text in her inbox again, feeling that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

_Chris McKay: Hey, I’m in town for the next week. Want to grab drinks?_

As much as she’d like to toss her phone to the end of the bed and forget about her life for the rest of the night, she owes McKay a reply. A lot more than that, actually, but a reply is a good start.

_Lexi Howard: How’s Friday? You pick the place._

She hits send, flips her phone out of her hand and sighs. Lexi already has enough on her plate between searching for a serial killer and grappling with an illicit crush on Bennett. Now, hearing from McKay just amplifies the pressure already on her. She smacks her head against her pillow a few times and groans.

In a perfect world there’d be no Sandman Strangler and Lexi would work a boring job like accounting, because crime wouldn’t exist.

In a perfect world Lexi would marry some rich guy and have two daughters and a son like she’d always imagined when she was a kid. Their life would be perfectly domestic, the children receiving the normal, stable upbringing Lexi didn’t get to have.

In a perfect world everything that happened two years ago would never have happened, and Lexi would still be happy and whole and she wouldn’t be damaged goods, living a life that’s not her own.

Of course, these are selfish thoughts—lots of people have it worse, she shouldn’t complain, etc etc etc.

For once, just once, she wishes her mind would let her indulge in something without reminding her she doesn’t deserve it.

But that’s not the world she lives in. The Strangler is still out there. And what has already happened can’t ever be undone. And she will never be able to be happy.

Her phone buzzes with a new text, distracting her from her pathetic tailspin.

_Chris McKay: Friday works. Del Soul at 7?_

She looks at the ceiling before tapping out a quick reply.

_Lexi Howard: Sounds good, see you then!_

As soon as she’s hit send, Lexi tosses the phone across the room like she’s wanted to do all night, but not even this soothes her angst. Because now Bennett’s on her mind. In fact, she just can’t get the detective out of her head…

The way she sometimes grins despite herself, then tries to conceal it like her smile is a secret she’s not ready to reveal.

The way her eyes sparkle when she loses herself in the moment, so vivid and alive and devoid of the usual pain behind them.

The way she loses herself in thought, her eyebrows furrowing and lips pursing in the most adorable way.

The way she grows distant and wistful when she’s thinking about something she doesn’t want to think about.

Lexi considers her old dream of the husband and two daughters and a son, a memory of her future. Then she closes her eyes and, just for a second, allows herself to imagine a life with Bennett.

There’s no atonement for the past; no making up for all that never was. They live in the present; they live free. They’re on a beach—or an orchard or field of flowers or something, doesn’t matter—but they’re talking, laughing, and she’s wrapped in Bennett’s arms and she nuzzles her head under Bennett’s chin and everything is simple. They’re together and they’re happy—not just happy, but content. After all, happiness is a fleeting emotion. Contentment is solid, lasting.

Of course, it’s an insane fantasy. Absolutely ridiculous. Why would Bennett ever want someone as terrible and messed up as Lexi?

And besides—Lexi’s not gay, remember?

As for what comes next? No idea. There’s no protocol for falling in love with your partner.

* * *

When Lexi arrives at work the next morning, Bennett is already sitting on the other side of Lexi’s table with her legs propped on it, a stack of manila folders on her lap.

“I’m a fuckin’ genius, Howard. Mother. Fucking. Genius.”

Lexi shoots her a skeptical look but plays along. “What’s the angle, Bennett?”

“The witness statements. It was the witness statements the whole time,” Bennett emphasizes as she taps her finger on the folders. “We have all of the witness’ official statements from their interviews at the precinct, but none of the initial statements from when they were interviewed at the scene. So I had Perez send me all of the initial statements to compare to the official ones.”

“What’d you find? Were there any differences?” Lexi asks, her expression shifting from skeptical to intrigued.

“I mean, I haven’t read through all of them yet. That’s at least 400 pages altogether. I fell asleep about a hundred pages in.”

“Wait, did you sleep here again last night?”

“Don’t get distracted. We’ve got some reading to do.”

Sleeping here wasn’t the only thing Bennett did last night, as she has apparently shifted her whole workspace from her corner to Lexi’s table. Unfortunately, having the detective sitting right across from her is incredibly distracting for the agent. She keeps catching herself staring at Bennett, who wears the same expression of calm and concentration that Lexi saw at Sara Villarreal’s scene.

Lexi watches Bennett’s eyes dart back and forth across the pages, narrowing and widening with her inner observations and realizations. She mouths the words as she reads, and when she stops to take notes in the margins her lips purse into an adorable pout—.

Wait, how long has she been staring?

Even worse, Lexi is feeling... _warm_ , again.

Bennett shoots her head up and taps her finger on her notes violently. “These statements are… they’re fucking weird, dude. The details in the initial statements are totally different from the official statements.”

“Something’s definitely wrong here,” Lexi agrees as she shakes her head.

“Okay, so it’s settled. It’s a lead!” Bennett claps her hands and rubs them together eagerly, invigorated by the idea of a new bone to chase. “We need to follow up with these witnesses as soon as possible. Let’s start running names, pulling background checks—.”

“Don’t you think we should start by building a case for why we’re following up with our witnesses?” Leech argues, hoping to slow Bennett down somewhat.

“When we figure out what they’re hiding, we won’t have to build our case for talking to them.”

“We need to know what to say—.”

“My lead, my rules.” Bennett crosses her arms and tenses her shoulders.

Lexi knows she’ll never win an argument with Bennett—the detective is too damn stubborn to let that happen. Instead, Lexi softens her approach.

“Look, I’m on your side here. This is a good lead. That’s why we need to be strategic and build our case from the ground up.”

Bennett heaves a dramatic sigh and fidgets with the pen in her hand. “Where would you start?”

“I think we should compare each witness’ initial statement with their official statement, write an assessment of each statement comparison and then conduct a meta-analysis.”

“Jesus Christ, Howard,” Bennett groans as she tilts her head back.

“What? It’s good process. No rushing to conclusions, no stones unturned.”

“By the time we’re finished with all that, we’ll have at least three more victims on our hands.”

“If this goes where you and I think it’s going, we’d better have a damn good reason to give the captain for why we’re investigating into witness tampering.”

Bennett looks like she wants to argue but she holds herself back.

“Fine, we’ll try your way,” she concedes, though she sounds almost physically pained to say it. “But we need to work fast if we’re gonna catch up.”

* * *

So once again, the partners hole themselves up in the conference room for some investigating. As they build a list of every discrepancy between the initial and official statements, they work at Howard’s slow, steady pace instead of Rue’s breakneck clip.

Usually such a glacial process would frustrate Rue, but since the agent earned her respect she’s willing to concede some of her tightly-held control. Howard’s organized, predictable, and most importantly, persistent. And that’s what Rue wants in a partner—someone as dogged as she is.

“You ladies don’t overwork yourselves in here.” The detective and agent are both startled from their work as Johnson’s voice shatters the room’s silence. He places an unsolicited mug of coffee in front of Howard and looms behind the agent.

“Yeah, uh, I’ll keep that in mind.” Howard scoots the mug out of her way, careful not to touch the handle he had just touched.

“Whatcha working on?” he asks as he hovers behind her, standing too close. He tilts his head and squints as if trying to read her notes.

“Hey Johnson,” Rue snaps, “why don’t you make like your last name and fuck off?”

“You first, Bennett!” Daniel chips back as he strolls away.

Rue watches Daniel leave, then turns to Howard with an underwhelmed expression. “He wants to fuck you,” she sighs as if stating the obvious.

“Ew.” Howard grimaces at the thought.

“You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if he were the Strangler. He has total Bundy vibes.”

“Agreed. This is the second time he’s tried to give me a drink.”

Rue’s expression turns concerned. “That’s fucked up. Next time he tries to do that, you need to shut that shit down.”

“I don’t think he’d take me seriously. I’m not exactly intimidating.”

“This is true.” Rue rests her chin on her hand and pauses to contemplate the dilemma. “Then tell me and I’ll kick their ass for you,” she replies with a firm nod.

Howard’s cheeks pinken at the suggestion. “I just don’t want to cause any trouble around here. This is a temporary assignment anyway.”

“Standing up to someone who’s sexually harassing you isn’t causing trouble; it’s challenging bad behavior. If the situation were reversed, would you be telling me I’m causing trouble?”

Howard blinks quickly as she tries to process Rue’s point. “Of course not, but that’s totally different. I’m me and you’re you.”

“Okay, you know what? I’m gonna go get some fresh air.” Rue lets off an exasperated sigh as she grabs her jacket and beats a retreat from the conference room.

The back alley behind the precinct is Rue’s preferred smoking spot for several reasons. It’s filled with rusty dumpsters, water-stained crates and broken furniture. A pungent smell accumulates from the rotting trash and grease puddles, which repulses all but the most hardened city-dwellers. Not to mention the shitty view: the back of the precinct sits across from a chain link fence blocking off a grassy, overgrown parking lot that the city closed off years ago.

That’s why Rue likes it—because nobody else does. The nastiness drives everyone else away, guaranteeing her privacy for whenever she needs an escape.

Once outside, she slaps her pack of Lucky Strike against her palm, tucks a cancer stick between her lips and lights up with a cupped hand. The hit of tobacco, that simple ritual of inhale and exhale, manages to put her at ease. She rolls her neck and shoulders to try and relieve the pent-up tension, which releases a cacophony of pops and cracks from her stiff muscles.

The back door squeals open and she whirls around to see Howard step outside. “Is that stray dog eating a dead pigeon?” the agent asks with concern, pointing to the scene playing out in the abandoned lot.

“That appears to be what’s happening,” Rue affirms as she puffs her cigarette.

“Wow. Nature is beautiful.”

“It really is, Howard.”

The agent says nothing else as she leans against the wall next to Rue, just lets a comfortable silence settle between them. That’s what makes Howard great company: her ability to exist in quiet, to not clutter the air with unnecessary words. Silence used to make Rue anxious, but thanks to Howard she’s come to appreciate the lulls.

After a few minutes Rue looks at the cigarette smoldering between her fingers, then to Howard. “I swear I’m quitting soon.”

The agent says nothing, only gestures for Rue to hand the cig to her.

“You don’t smoke.”

“Maybe I do sometimes.”

“Then by all means...”

Rue hands the lit cigarette to Howard, who grasps it between her thumb and forefinger. The agent takes a careful draw and immediately recoils in a hacking fit.

“That is _foul_ ,” she winces as she hands the cig back. “How do you smoke this stuff?”

“It’s not that hard to poison yourself,” Rue replies nonchalantly before taking a long drag. “You get used to it.”

“But why try it in the first place if you know it’s bad for you?”

Rue holds the cigarette to eye-level and looks wistfully. “It started as a way to.... as a release, I guess. Same with alcohol. My dad had just died, I felt like I couldn’t live with my own brain anymore, so I did whatever helped me cope.”

Rue almost stops herself here. She’s already revealed too much to the agent, leaving herself dangerously vulnerable. But sometimes Rue gets tired of hiding. Sometimes she just wants to talk. And somehow she knows Howard’s safe to talk to.

“With the drinking, it’s like... I wasn’t addicted until I was, y’know? Like I thought for years, ‘this is fine, this is normal.’ Then one day I woke up and realized I’m adding whiskey to my coffee every morning, and smuggling water bottles filled with vodka into work, and passing out drunk on the bathroom floor three nights a week. That is very clearly not normal.”

She takes another drag and flicks the ash off the tip. When she turns to face Howard, she finds the agent wearing a calm expression rather than one of pity or judgment. Encouraged, Rue keeps rambling.

“The sick thing is that even when I realized it wasn’t normal I had no intention of stopping. I just went through the motions of getting help. That’s what everyone wanted me to do.”

She stamps the butt of her finished cigarette underneath her heel then pulls another from her pack, enjoying another long drag.

“Jules was really great at first,” she goes on. “She was supportive in every way a partner could be. But she couldn’t help me if I didn’t want to change, and that really hurt her. I realized that too late—I only started to see it as a problem when my life fell apart.”

“Your life fell apart when Jules left?”

Rue bobs her head side-to-side. “More or less, yeah.”

“And yet here you are, working on the biggest case in the city.”

“Your positivity is exhausting.”

Howard flashes a bemused grin. “Cynicism is safe. Positivity is a risk. When you hope for something better, you’re opening yourself up to disappointment that it won’t be.”

The partners allow a moment of silence to contemplate these words, then Howard gestures for the cigarette.

“Again? God, Howard—you’re such a masochist.”

She watches Howard take her next drag with more confidence. Howard coughs and sputters a bit on the second inhale, then takes another puff.

“You know, if I can give you some advice of my own, you need to focus on yourself more,” Rue offers.

“Okay. What do you mean?”

“Think about it: what makes you happy? What do you like to do for fun?”

“Come on, you know I don’t do stuff for fun. Neither do you.” Howard nudges Bennett with her shoulder and passes the cig back.

“Yeah, but that’s not the point,” Rue states between puffs. “You don’t know because you give too much of yourself away. Sometimes you have to be a little selfish.”

The agent nods, then furrows her brow. “What do I need to do to be selfish?”

“Are you serious?” Rue chuckles breathlessly.

Howard just nods, her earnest expression remaining unchanged.

“Well...” Rue trails as she passes the cig to Howard. “Remember when you were a kid and you thought the whole world revolved around you?”

“No,” Howard mutters, then takes a contemplative drag.

“Oh come on, every kid feels like that at some point.”

“Not every kid,” Howard shakes her head. “When both your parents are addicts, you realize pretty quickly that you’re not the most important thing in the world.” The agent takes a long drag that nearly finishes the cig off before she passes it back to Rue.

“Oh.” Rue frowns, recognizing the weight of Howard’s confession. Now that she thinks about it, this explains a lot about the agent: her caregiver tendencies, her perfectionism, her evasiveness about her past...

“How do you do it?” Rue asks as she grinds the cigarette out against the wall.

“Do what?”

“How are you not cynical all the time?”

Howard considers this question, her reply matching Rue’s sincerity. “You have to look for the good. Sometimes it’s hard to find, but it’s almost always there.”

Rue can’t help but crack a smile at the reply, which is classic Howard.

Maybe her past with addiction explains a lot about the agent, but it also explains very little. As an addict herself, Rue knows the pressure-cooker environment that addiction creates in a household. Somehow Howard turned out okay—clearly troubled, but overall obnoxiously good-natured. It’s not a quality Rue would expect from someone raised by drunkards and junkies.

“Come on,” Howard interrupts, tipping her head to the door. “Let’s go catch a bad guy.”

As they head back inside, Rue throws her arm around the agent’s shoulder.


	11. Your Move

When possible, Nate tries to avoid bloodshed at the scene entirely.

Blood is such a disgusting substance. It’s filled with bacteria, microorganisms, and biological toxins that pose serious biohazards. Just the thought makes Nate’s skin crawl.

As much as he wants to shower right now, he knows he has to be more careful these days. Sometimes the ritual has to be modified for the preservation of the Final Act, even if that means he has to stop using the victim’s shower.

Of course, the police would never link this particular kill to the Sandman Strangler (a name which he absolutely detests to his core). The body presently in front of him is a 46-year old man who apparently shot himself through the head—at least, Nate did his best to make it look this way. It looks like just another suspicious suicide. 

It’s a shame his old dealer had to die. Brandon was a nice guy and he never asked any questions. Plus he dealt in San Clemente, which until recently Nate assumed was out of the LAPD’s scope of investigation. But with the LAPD hot on his trail, he can’t leave any loose ends unattended.

Because of some pesky investigators Nate’s had to go on hiatus from performing his ritual, at least until the case against him inevitably goes cold again. But that doesn’t mean the wait hasn’t been hard. Nate always feels empty, but without the ritual he feels entirely without purpose.

The prostitute he killed last week was just as beautiful as any of the women for whom he had performed a Final Act. But there was nothing satisfying in her death by the knife, nothing beautiful or pure in her Final Act, no last secret shared between them. No order in the chaos of her death.

He’d realized very quickly the error of his method—using a knife at such close range exposed him to blood which, for all he knew, could contain HIV, hepatitis or any number of diseases. He had to drive all the way home with her blood on his face, arms and shirt. He took four showers that night.

Nate’s starting to understand what his father meant when he said that the world would hate him. It’s fighting against him as viciously as ever, jealous of the perfection which he creates.

But he’s ready in every front. Brandon’s death is unfortunate but pragmatic, just a necessary step in his larger plan. Now he has more important things to attend to.


	12. The Game's Afoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who's stuck with the story so far, and for your patience with this (very) slow burn. Consider this a Part 2 of sorts.

The alarm under her pillow blares at full volume, jolting Rue awake with a sharp gasp for breath. It’s a terrible way to start the morning but it’s the only way to wake her up, lest she sleep all day.

She rubs the crust off her eyes and adjusts to consciousness, taking in the world that greets her this morning: she’s alone, in a big empty bed, in an empty room, in an empty home. Same as every day. She curls underneath her favorite blanket and clamps her eyes shut until the second alarm startles her awake again.

After the tenuous process of sitting up, she sits on the edge of her bed with her feet planted on the chilly floor for a good ten minutes. She knows as soon as she stands up, the clock will start. Just three days ago she and Howard started looking into her witness tampering theory, and the partners have a lot of ground to cover if they want to make this lead veritable.

Eventually she stands up with an audible groan, feeling her bones creak at the effort. Then she goes through the motions of dressing herself, brushing her teeth, applying a healthy amount of deodorant—whatever makes her socially acceptable to appear in public.

After two hurried cups of coffee and a slice of lunch meat for breakfast she hops in the car and speeds off. She lights up a cigarette, because at this point she has given up on giving cigs up. Besides, the cigarettes help her think when she’s trying to figure shit out.

She spends the drive analyzing and scrutinizing everything she knows about her theory so far, forming and debunking new theories on the witness’ lack of cooperation. Every now and again, for just a brief second, her mind yields to the usual intrusive thoughts about Jules, liquor, family, failure and dying alone.

_Maybe the cigs can help—every time I think I want to cease to exist, I’ll just smoke instead._

A car cuts her off and she lays on the horn.

_Actually that’s probably a bad idea, unless I want lung cancer by the time I’m 35._

Her frenetic brainstorming threatens to overwhelm her by the time she pulls into the precinct’s parking lot, where a throng of reporters stand outside the door.

_Something big is going down. And it probably has to do with the Strangler._

Just the thought manifests panic in the pit of her stomach, and she’s gnawed with the anticipation of finding out what’s brewing inside the precinct.

Her dread is furthered affirmed when she reaches the third floor and sees the packed conference room. Rue’s palms itch at the sight, and she briefly considers the idea that this is all a bad dream and she hasn’t actually woken up yet.

Unfortunately reality is unyielding. She holds her breath and steps inside, still clueless as to what’s going on. Howard’s nowhere in sight. In fact, she barely recognizes any of the people in the room, most of whom wear guest lanyards and prominent FBI badges. They’re almost all middle-aged, balding, white men with cheap black or blue suits, laughing and chatting with styrofoam cups of coffee and donuts in hand. The room is humid with body heat, and loud monotone chatter rattles in Rue’s ears.

To proceed further into the room would be akin to walking into a lion’s den. Instead Rue moves along the wall until she reaches a corner to hide in, where she surveys the room with darting eyes.

A few people she recognizes, including Johnson, Perez, Hernandez and Custer, are huddled on the other side of the room. Captain Ali stands near the podium, deep in conversation amongst some Very Important Looking People.

Rue’s already a bundle of nerves, but the ringing screech of audio feedback from the podium stabs her ears and further intensifies her sensory overload. Fortunately, the tapping on the microphone quiets the room and refocuses Rue enough to allow get some control.

“Good morning, and welcome to our colleagues from the FBI. We’re very excited to have you here this morning,” Captain Ali greets the room.

She gulps in deep breaths as she slumps into an empty chair, trying to aim her attention at Captain Ali’s echoing voice.

“In a few minutes we will be holding an official press conference downstairs to inform the public of a major breakthrough in the so-called ‘Sandman Strangler’ investigation.

_A courtesy call would’ve been nice, considering this is my case..._

“To pre-brief you on the high-level details of this development, it is my pleasure to introduce my esteemed colleague from the FBI’s Central Division, Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge McMurray.”

Ali yields the podium with a round of applause, topped off by a few theatrical whistles that compel Rue to roll her eyes.

“Thank you Captain,” a nasally voice comes over the mic. “I’m proud to announce that, thanks to the fine investigative and forensic work of the FBI with assistance from the LAPD, we have identified an individual intricately connected to the victims of the ‘Sandman Strangler’.”

Rue jerks her head back as the news is revealed, her mouth falling open slightly before she catches herself. ‘Intricately connected to’ is LEO jargon for ‘we think this the bad guy but we can’t publicly say that.’ Meaning: the FBI thinks they’ve found the Strangler.

_But who? And how?_

Her second question is quickly answered by the ASAC’s monotone address: “After investigators determined our suspect habitually showered at the scene of the crime, members of our investigative team used hair samples collected in the shower drains of the victims’ baths.”

‘Investigators’? Rue scoffs at the omission—the shower drain theory was Howard’s and Howard’s alone.

_Is the FBI actually taking credit from its own agents now?_

“A thorough forensic analysis of the samples from both the FBI and LAPD was conducted, linking a local resident named Tyler Clarkson to the scene of six victims.”

An old mugshot of Tyler Clarkson flashes on the screen and Rue leans forward and squints, taking in the physical details. He’s stocky with a wide face and long, dirty blond hair—definitely not what she was expecting the perp to look like.

“We have issued an order to apprehend Mr. Clarkson for further questioning. This order may be upgraded to an arrest warrant per a pending decision from the county DA.”

_So not only do they have a suspect, but they’re getting the District Attorney involved? Seems to be moving a little fast considering they only just established him as a suspect._

“Any of the specific information just briefed to you, such as the name of our suspect and our method of linking him to the scenes, are regarded as confidential and shall not be divulged to the public at this time. We trust and appreciate your discretion.”

A round of self-congratulatory applause erupts from the agents. As the room fills with chatter again, Rue grips the armrests on her seat and tries to process the wallop of information thrown at her.

They found the Strangler. The case is almost over. So is Rue’s career. As these realizations set in the world seems to narrow around her like she’s in a tunnel.

When she looks back up it’s as if the Red Sea has parted—there’s Howard, standing at the ASAC’s right hand with some other important-looking folks. The agent is wearing a slightly upscale pantsuit with her badge around her neck, a look she manages to pull off without coming off as sleazy.

Apparently sensing someone watching her, Howard turns, glancing about until her eyes meet Rue’s. The agent’s eyes widen and she pivots back to her group, says a few more words to them with a curt nod, and then starts to make her way towards Rue.

Though she’s in no condition to talk to Howard, the onset of Rue’s panic paralyzed her. Her neck and back are burning, her throat closing up like she’s having an allergic reaction to her own anxiety. She can barely breathe in the humid room, much less think. But as long as Howard is looking right at her, Rue remains frozen in her seat.

Howard’s path to Rue is interrupted when a couple of agents step in front of Howard with their hands extended. With the agent’s eyes off of her, it’s as if the trance breaks and Rue regains control of herself.

She needs to get out of this room, away from Howard and the cartel of FBI agents.

Walking as fast as she can without running, she escapes outside to the back alley. She leans herself against the brick wall of the precinct and focuses on deep breaths, blocks out the onslaught of anxiety. Once her breathing’s under control she straightens herself up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

She should be happy that they might have finally caught the Strangler. Instead, she is pissed off.

She lights up a cigarette and looks up to the sky as she exhales the smoke. There’s heavy smog today, coating the air with the smell of bleach that makes being outside unpleasant. Still, it’s far better than staying inside with the wolves from the FBI.

Dr. Harmon once said that anger is a valid emotion, and that Rue should allow herself to experience fully. So Rue lets herself be as angry as she wants, because the FBI’s done it again: they came in, freeloaded and took the credit for it. Now they’ll probably try to yank the whole investigation away from LAPD, right when Rue is on the verge of a major breakthrough.

After her cigarette burns out and Rue runs out of excuses, she drags herself back inside. Thankfully the third floor is empty, since apparently everyone wanted to go pat themselves on the backs at the press conference.

Even restored to its usual empty state, the conference room in which she and Howard have logged so many hours feels like a completely different place. The residual smell of BO and cheap aftershave still hangs in the air, and leftover styrofoam cups and half-eaten food were left scattered across the room by rude agents.

Worst of all, the organized piles of casework she and Howard strategically laid out across the room had been dumped into moving boxes in the corner. She shifts through the jumbled papers in a box, groans aloud as she tries to estimate how long she’ll have to spend trying to reorganize their work.

“Bennett?”

The interruption startles Rue from her thoughts, though she immediately recognizes the voice. She turns around to see Howard standing just a few feet from her.

“Whoa, didn’t hear you come in.” Rue explains as she looks Howard up and down. "Why aren’t you at the press conference?”

“Guess I didn’t want to be in front of the cameras.”

“Don’t blame you,” Rue replies with a sage nod.

A palpable tension between them is captured in the moment of quiet. Both reckon with the uncertainty of their futures, and whether this is the end of the road for the A-Team.

Howard rubs her hands together and glances around the room like she’s searching for something. She probably senses the awkwardness in the air as palpably as Rue does.

Rue sways side to side, follows Howard’s eyes around the room. “They really messed up our office to make room for your FBI buddies,” she says as she gestures to the boxes behind her.

“Did they seriously dump all our work in a bunch of boxes?”

“Yeah, it appears they did.”

Howard stands next to Rue and peers into the boxes. Rue watches the agent closely in her peripheral, notes how she huffs under her breath as she combs through their work.

“So it’s all moving pretty fast now,” Rue mumbles. She hesitates, aware than her next question may arouse suspicions of paranoia. “Did... did you know this was gonna happen?”

“I only found out this morning,” Howard explains. “My boss called me while I was running.”

“Well I still think we should talk to BB. Maybe she can tell us something about this Tyler guy.”

“You’re in luck,” Howard replies, “she’s coming to your precinct on Monday. They asked her to come down and identify him in a photo lineup.”

“What the hell? Nobody tells me anything,” Rue grumbles as she taps her fingertips against her palms and clears her throat, trying to sound casual. “Will... you still be here on Monday?”

(Posing the question is a calculated risk: she needs to know whether she still has a partner, but would rather avoid betraying the fact that she feels a small personal investment in the agent).

“They’re probably gonna reassign me to focus on Tyler Clarkson. FBI’s gonna do a full analysis of this guy and they want us to dig up everything we can on him.”

Rue bobs her head in understanding, but her lips twitch into a frown. Oddly, she feels a strange heaviness in her chest at the idea that she won’t be working with Howard.

“Have you had lunch yet?” Rue asks quickly, though even she herself isn’t sure why.

Howard looks at Rue with a surprised expression, hesitates and looks back down as she formulates a response. “After the press conference I have to go to my field office for the rest of the afternoon.” Her head drops, and she almost looks genuinely regretful to decline Rue’s invitation. “What are you gonna do now?” she follows up.

“Probably get some fish tacos.”

Howard laughs a little. “No, I mean... Do you know how LAPD’s going to go forward now? Are they closing the case?”

Of course Rue has no idea what’s gonna happen. She didn’t even know about the lead suspect until half an hour ago. But she plays it off with a shrug. “I don’t know, but I’m gonna keep working on my theory until I’m told otherwise.”

Rue quickly glances at Howard and then back down to her box. “Do you think this Tyler guy is the Strangler?” she asks with a forced tone of indifference.

Howard keeps sorting her work out of the boxes for a moment, then she stops and rests her hands on the table. “I guess we’ll see. But he was linked to multiple scenes. That’s a pretty damning start.”

In the beat of silence that follows Rue contemplates Howard’s response—it’s not the answer she wants to hear, but it’s an honest one.

When Howard breaks the silence, the shift in her tone jolts Rue. “You need to keep looking into the witnesses. There’s something that doesn’t add up.”

Rue stops pretending to sort and turns to face Howard, whose expression displays an intensity at odds with her usual levelheadedness. There’s a pregnant silence as they look at each other, like both of them want to say something but can’t summon the words or the courage. So they both stay silent, allowing the moment to pass with words left unsaid.

“How can I find our bad guy when all my work’s been screwed up? God, it’s gonna take me forever to fix all this.” Rue sighs and rubs her hands over her face with exasperation.

“Well, I have to get drinks tonight... but maybe after I’m done I can come by and help you reorganize. Will you still be here at 9:30?”

“Where else would I be?”

The agent laughs a little, looks down at her box then back at Rue.

“I can pick you up and maybe give you a ride. After you’re done with your thing,” Rue blurts out. God, she sounds desperate for company.

“Yeah, I... I’ll send you the address,” Howard stammers in reply. She looks around the room again and shifts her feet. “I have to get going, the ASAC’s probably waiting for me right now.”

As Howard walks out and steps into the elevator, Rue swears she sees the agent turn around for another look at the detective.


	13. Everything’s Fine

One nice, calm day where nothing batshit crazy happens—is that too much to ask for?

It is for Lexi, apparently.

She’d already been nervous about Friday since she’s going to get drinks with McKay tonight. But the day started out innocently enough. She actually had a good night’s sleep for once. On her morning run she didn’t have to stop and wheeze every few hundred yards. She even went a little farther than her usual route. Because why not go off book once, go a little crazy?

And then, when Lexi was just one block from home, her supervisory agent called: her shower drain theory broke the case wide open, identifying a suspect linked by DNA to multiple crime scenes.

Her breakthrough flipped everything upside down. She barely had time to process the news on her way to work, and when she arrived at the precinct she was thrown headlong into a whirlwind of crowds and confusion. Since she returned to her field office, her day has developed into a storm in which she stands in the center.

As the Central Division’s original investigator for this case, Lexi knows more about the Sandman Strangler than anyone in the division. Consequently she’s the most important person in the room. She sits at ASAC Murray’s right hand through a gauntlet of long briefings, reports, and discussions with senior officials, fields a litany of questions from some of the highest-ranking officials in the state.

After being at the center of attention all day, she’s completed drained by the last briefing. As some analyst drones on, her tired mind disconnects and wanders to the ASAC. Now that she thinks about it McMurray’s spoken to her more today than in all the years she’d worked for him, combined. Probably just because he wants some of the credit for finding Tyler.

Well, he can take all the credit he wants. Lexi doesn’t want any of it.

A normal, well-adjusted person would be excited about this breakthrough. They’d see what a fantastic career opportunity has been given to them and they’d take full advantage. Instead, Lexi tries to ignore the creeping dread as her bosses congratulate her and shake her hand and treat her like she suddenly matters. Shadows of Salinas still linger in the back of her mind, clouding the day’s events in a disorienting fog.

When the ASAC finally ends the last briefing Lexi manages to escape a happy hour invitation by sneaking out as fast as possible.

On the way home, at the risk of allowing her Uber driver to abduct her, she leans against the window for a quick power nap. Even when she’s asleep she can’t rest. As soon as she drifts off, she’s right back there again.

She’s had this dream dozens of times in the past two years, and she recognizes it immediately from the wet grass beneath her feet and that sick coppery smell in the air. But this time Bennett’s here too, lingering at the end of the driveway. She needs to get to Bennett and help her before it’s too late. But as always, when she tries to run she finds her muscles locked so that she can only move in slow motion, resigned to watch from afar what happens next.

_Pop! Pop!_

Lexi startles awake with a sharp gasp.

“Sorry ma’am,” the Uber driver apologizes, “I think the car behind us backfired.”

“That’s okay.”

Her heartbeat eventually slows from its racing pace, though she remains vigilant for danger. The rest of the car ride allows too much time for increasingly daunting thoughts to fester in her mind.

She’s been so busy all day that she didn’t even have time to think about the night to come. After today, she’d like nothing more than to put on her coziest pajamas and spend her Friday night eating junk food and catching cat videos. Instead, as usual, she overcommitted herself.

First she still has to meet McKay for drinks, and after this morning she could be putting him in danger just by meeting him in public. But it’s been so long since she last saw McKay or even talked to him, so there’s no way she can cancel. She needs to keep her plans, reach out to him more, do better by him.

Yet even though she knows that time is finite and goes by quickly, that one day McKay will be gone and she’ll have regrets, she can’t bring herself to stay in touch with him for very long at a time. It’s too hard, stirs up too much old stuff she doesn’t have time to deal with.

Obviously she couldn’t decline McKay, but she shouldn’t have overextended herself and made plans with Bennett right after. Because Lexi is a fundamentally awkward person, she had to make her situation with Bennett even weirder by agreeing to help the detective sort out their work. Because Lexi can’t ever say no to people. It’s one of her most toxic traits.

Her latest fuckup is probably her most egregious. Lexi rarely develops crushes, much less romantic interests. But now, at the worst possible time, she finds herself attracted to her partner. Extremely attracted. The thought alone makes Lexi blush with shame. And to make matters worse, Bennett isn’t going away quietly. Now that Lexi’s leaving the LAPD she has no reason to stay in touch with Bennett, but Bennett is making it hard to say goodbye.

Logically, it just didn’t make any sense. There’s no logical reason for why Lexi’s heart melts every time Bennett smirks, or why she wants to unfurl Bennett’s messy bun and see what the detective’s hair really looks like. But logic doesn’t factor into this equation. Somehow, independent of her brain, her heart has decided to fall for a woman!

Not just any woman, but her damn partner!

And the craziest thing about it all is that maybe—just maybe—Bennett kind of likes her too. She had watched Bennett’s eyes flicker to the floor when she realized they wouldn’t be working together anymore. And maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Lexi swears Bennett actually looked a little sad.

Now she’s screwed up another good thing, and she can’t deny it anymore: she does have feelings for Bennett. Ones that go beyond a platonic level. That might even be considered... _romantic_.

Lexi swears that she’s her own worst enemy, the way she self-sabotages. She’s a complete mess disguised as a functional person. Even though she knows her interest in the detective will bring about disaster for both of them, she doesn’t want their partnership to end.

When she gets home she peels her clothes off, turns on her shower and sits on the floor of the tub for half an hour. She tucks her knees under her chin and lets the hot water run over her. Her eyes stay fixed in a thousand-yard stare as she allows herself to feel a moment of defeat. She’s so tired. Sometimes it’s so hard not to give out.

Lexi eventually pulls herself out of her stupor and stumbles out of the tub on numb legs, finding that she has to steady herself against the bathroom counter for a few minutes to ease her light-headedness. She wipes the fog off the mirror, studies her face and realizes she doesn’t recognize who’s looking back at her. This person just looks so worn out, world-weary.

McKay can’t see her like this. She needs to look like she has her shit together.

So she goes through the regimen of redoing herself: concealer and highlighter to fix the dark circles, blush to fix the paleness, mascara to open up her heavy eyes, dark red lipstick to distract from the rest of her face. She dresses in the same black dress that she probably wore the last time she saw him, because Lexi’s nothing if not consistent. 

This will be fine, she decides. She’ll get through this like she always does. Then she’ll get to go back to the office and help Bennett and...

Nope, no—she needs to focus on the task and at hand and get through this first. No thinking about how Bennett’s dealing with everything from today, or if she’s okay right now. She especially doesn’t think about the way Bennett seemed to want to spend more time with her. She doesn’t think about it because it will only lead to trouble.

* * *

The rest of the day passes at a glacial pace for Rue, making it nearly impossible to focus on her work. Without the familiar organization of her casework it’s as if her train of thought is lost, almost like she’s starting from scratch. She’s already started putting the pieces back together, trying to restore the original way it was organized to the best of her memory. But it’s a time consuming, mind-numbing process. Especially when you’re by yourself.

She pulls a thick stack of paper from the moving box, thumbing through it absentmindedly until she realizes these must be some of Howard’s notes that she left behind. Rue examines the curved form of the handwriting, written in neat cursive that stays between the margins, and runs her fingers over the even pressure of the words against the page.

_Practiced to perfection. Just like Howard._

Rue smiles to herself at the thought, then frowns. She didn’t even want another partner at first, especially one from the FBI. And now here she is, sad that her partner is leaving.

(Not that Rue needs Howard, per se. Rue can get along just fine, partner or no partner. And detachment is preferable to heartbreak, based on her experience.)

Admittedly, pathetic as it may be, getting to know Howard was one of the only bright spots in the past several weeks, even months. Since Jules left, probably.

Until today, when shit got fucked up.

Based on past experience, Rue knows she shouldn’t trust Howard, because Howard’s FBI at the end of the day. But after today, Rue’s rethinking her instincts. Suddenly the FBI is starting a turf war, and Howard is acting weirder than usual, and Rue has no idea what’s going on in either situation.

Her insecurities keep tearing at Rue as she tries to focus on sorting. But she’s just not good at organizing; it bores her. Organizing is more Howard’s thing, anyway. Eventually Rue gives up on trying to sort, grabs whatever casework is within arms reach of her, and starts working on her theory again.

Now that the FBI has a lead suspect, Rue needs to justify her continued presence on the LAPD’s case. And to justify her presence, she needs to bolster her witness theory. So she starts to build a full list of the differences between each witness’ initial and official statements, carefully analyzing and cross examining every detail.

Afternoon wears into evening and her coworkers go to happy hour, the lights turn off and the sun sets. But the outside world barely registers to Rue as she delves deeper into her work, her list of discrepancies growing longer and longer.

Her concentration is only broken by the creak of the door opening and the custodian pushing the cleaning cart into the room.

“Hey Gloria,” Rue greets casually.

“It smells in here,” she scowls.

“Yeah. This room was packed with sweaty white dudes earlier.”

Gloria nods knowingly and quietly goes about her work cleaning the room. Rue usually doesn’t mind the older woman’s presence, which is actually kind of soothing for the few minutes they see each other each evening. Except tonight Gloria interrupted Rue when Rue was in the zone. It’s hard for her to build up such a high level of concentration, especially when she has to sit quietly in an empty room for hours.

“Has Agent Howard gone home?” Gloria asks casually as she gathers up the vacuum’s cord.

“No, she’s coming in soon,” Rue replies unconvincingly.

She shakes her head. “You two need to get a life.”

Rue stretches out the tightness in her neck, then checks her watch. It’s 9:15 and she hasn’t heard from Howard, who almost certainly is not coming to work tonight. Because Howard’s the one who has a life. She’s out, getting drinks and making connections and having fun.

The thought stirs something inside Rue, a mix of envy and intrigue at the idea of Howard’s personal life. Rue tended to view the agent as if she only existed within the boundaries of their case. But Howard has plans tonight, and now Rue realizes that Howard has an entire personal life, a side of herself totally unknown to Rue.

This revelation sends Rue down a rabbit hole of random thoughts about the agent:

_What’s her family like?_

_Where did she grow up?_

_How many friends does she have?_

_Is she seeing anyone?_

_What does she do for fun?_

_What’s her favorite food?_

_What’s her favorite movie?_

Now that the idea of Howard as a person has been introduced, Rue knows she won’t be able to concentrate for the rest of the night. She stands up and stretches again, grabs a few files and her car keys from her desk.

“Leaving so early?” Gloria observes with a look of concern.

“TGIF,” Rue shrugs as she pulls on her trench coat.

Gloria says nothing, just shakes her head and goes back to vacuuming as Rue trudges out.

Entering the outside world after hours in a windowless fluorescent room is always a disorienting experience. Tonight she’s especially dizzied as she stands on the sidewalk, bouncing on the balls of her feet. The city’s buzzing tonight, and she’s restless to match that frequency.

In the old days, back when she used to sweat liquor, she’d head to the bar three blocks away when she got off work. She was a regular for years, and if she were to come back tonight they’d probably still recognize her, even welcome her. There’s also the liquor store two and a half blocks away, open until midnight. And of course she could go home, where three quarters of a bottle of Southern Comfort will greet her from underneath her bed.

Instead of going to any of these places, Rue hops in her car and lets herself get lost in the city. As she drives she smokes three cigarettes down to the stub while trying and failing to distract her from herself. Her mind’s going on the fritz again, looping between thoughts of Jules, her job, the case, Howard, Jules, her job, the case, Howard, Jules...

Her mind is the reason Rue started drinking in the first place, and it’s especially hard to handle without the aid of liquor. Most of the time the memories of her withdrawal are enough to dissuade her from picking the bottle back up, lest she suffer through the shaking, cold sweats and constant nausea again. But tonight even these memories can’t tamper the craving for a neat drink. She stares down every bar she drives by but never allows herself to slow down or stop.

The glow of Christmas lights ahead steals Rue’s attention to a taco stand on the right side of the road, beckoning as she pulls over like a moth to a flame.

She sits alone at a picnic table, a basket of carne asada fries in front of her, and enjoys one of her favorite pastimes: people watching. She observes the middle-aged couple making out over a platter of nachos, some loud high school kids, a forlorn looking man in a three-piece suit, and of course, the group of 20-something bohemians more interested in taking pictures of their food than eating it. Apparently everyone else at the taco stand are enjoying various levels of intoxication tonight, from the tipsy high schoolers to the absolutely wasted boomer couple.

Rue fights off the inevitable jealousy and tries to think positively: the world’s burning, the love of her life’s gone forever, her addiction is wearing her down, her career’s on the rocks, a serial killer is on the loose—but Rue is dealing with it all and she’s not using liquor to cope. That in itself is a huge step, one which she allows herself to take a little pride in.

Just as she’s experiencing her first self-positive thought in months, the light ding of her text tone distracts her. Grunting in frustration, she pulls her phone out and squints at the incomprehensible texts:

_Senior Special Agent Howard: Am so sorry. Lost track of time,? IM ready to come on work now. Get me??_

_Senior Special Agent Howard: This HOWARD_

Oh boy—Howard got drunk. “Wasn’t expecting that,” Rue mumbles through a mouthful of food.

_Bennett: k. be there soon._

Though the idea of drunk Howard is at least kind of funny, it‘s also concerning to Rue. Howard is out there, so drunk she can’t type, perhaps surrounded by strangers. Is she okay? Is she safe?

She doesn’t wait to find out the answers as she grabs her basket of fries and bolts to the car.


	14. Detour (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order to get into the mindset of a drunk person I drank half a bottle of champagne to write this two-parter. Not all heroes wear capes.

Though her vigilance had somewhat waned since Salinas, now that Lexi’s name is back in the headlines she’ll need to keep her guard up in public again. Her safety can’t be taken for granted.

She arrives at Del Soul 15 minutes early to clear the location and choose a seat in the back, where she can see who’s entering and exiting the bar. But of course McKay is already there, waving her over from a small table in the center of two busy walkways.

_Showing up even earlier than me—a classic McKay move._

Not to mention choosing the worst possible place for a table. She makes her way through the noisy barroom, her eyes darting between the patrons while she inches through the crowd.

“Lex!” he greets with another wave and an eager smile. “What’s up, girl?”

“Well, you know...” she trails off, allowing him to pull her into a hug.

It’s been almost a year since she last saw McKay, but his embrace feels the same. She’s struck with nostalgia that quickly sours into foreboding once she remembers that, historically, she and he have not hugged for happy reasons. Instead of being comforted by his familiar touch, she’s relieved when it’s over.

He pulls her seat out for her like a gentleman, and when he sits down across from her she finally gets a good look at Chris McKay in the flesh. He’s fresh as ever; the only physical difference compared to last year is that his beard is fuller and stylishly unkempt. If appearances are any indication he’s getting along much better than Lexi.

McKay orders an elaborate cocktail she’s never heard of, probably something he’d learned at one of the many bars he owns and operates.

“And for you, ma’am?” the waiter prompts.

A request for Sprite reaches the tip of Lexi’s tongue, but then she stops herself and calls an audible.

“Cranberry rum, please.”

Because if any long day has earned her the right to drink, it’s today. Even at the risk of impairing herself to potential danger.

“So when was the last time we saw each other?” McKay questions. “Your mom’s funeral?”

“That sounds right,” she nods, though she doesn’t think too deeply about it. She barely recalls the events surrounding Suze’s death, except for how she felt absolutely nothing—no sadness, no anger, no remorse or relief. Numbness has been a daily experience for Lexi over the past two years, and not even her mother’s death could break that emotional seal.

“Yeah, that whole thing was pretty bleak. But she’d been sick for a while, so I guess it wasn’t too sad, y’know?”

“Yup. Cheers,” Lexi offers as she raises her glass.

McKay cocks his head. “Are you cheersing Suze getting sick or her funeral?”

“I’m cheersing to change the subject,” she replies matter-of-factly.

Their glasses clink together, then McKay throws his head back for a gulp of his mystery cocktail. Lexi eyes her drink warily—the last time she had rum was four years ago when that asshole Jared broke up with her and she bought, drank, and puked a pint of spiced Bacardi all in one night. She can vaguely recall how it tasted like cinnamon and hand sanitizer, which was an even worse taste coming back out than it was going in.

“Fuck it,” she mutters as she takes a confident sip. To her pleasant surprise, she can barely taste the alcohol. With another hefty taste of the delicious rum she smiles and nods in approval. “You picked a classy place... Not that I thought you’d pick a bad place,” she clarifies quickly.

_Why am I so bad at saying normal things?_

But McKay just laughs lightly and moves on. He’s always been smooth like that, making her awkwardness feel less unbearable. “Yeah, I still know the owner here,” he explains. “Two years ago we’d actually talked about buying out this tequila bar on San Pedro. That was before everything—.”

Lexi can sense the incoming emotional reflection, a Pandora’s box she needs to clamp shut. “Oh yeah, how are things going in Portland?”

McKay hesitates and blinks quickly, thrown off by her quick redirect. “Uh... it’s good actually. Just opened a second joint. It’s a gin bar in the Pearl that doubles as a soap making studio.”

Lexi takes a few long sips of rum, marveling at how smoothly it goes down. “Gin and soap? That’s an... _eclectic_ combination.”

McKay shrugs and chuckles lightly. “What can I say? Plays really well with hipsters.” After a beat of polite laughter he looks pensive. “I won’t lie, I do miss LA sometimes though.”

“Well, it’s still the same: light traffic, clean air, friendly people,” she retorts, stumbling over the words as she tries to form them. She just has to keep the subject positive, not get too deep, and maybe she’ll survive tonight.

“Yeah, that’s exactly how I remember it,” McKay retorts dryly as he matches Lexi to chug the rest of their drinks.

She’d forgotten how easily she and McKay play off of each other. Though they have little in common, beneath their straight-laced exteriors they both have a dry, sometimes irreverent sense of humor. This dynamic takes the edge off of the immense guilt Lexi usually feels when she’s around him.

The rum is also doing an excellent job of taking the edge off. Suddenly she’s light, she’s not as jumpy as usual, she’s able to carry a conversation, and everything’s a lot funnier. It’s a win for everyone.

 _So this is why people like to drink when they socialize_.

Emboldened, she goes ahead and orders a second drink.

Unfortunately, right around that time McKay gets sentimental. “You know,” he opines in a somber tone, “it wasn’t ‘till I moved to Portland that I realized how much I needed to leave LA.“

“Hi, can I get another one please?” Lexi requests to the waiter as she hands her empty glass to him.

“I really think you should think about getting out of here,” McKay continues, undaunted by Lexi’s inattention.

“Where am I going again?”

McKay groans and rolls his head around. “It’s bad for you to be in the same place everyday after what happened. There’s bad energy here,” he says forcefully. “Get out of here. Hell, come to Portland, it’s great up there. It’ll help you move on.”

She’s taken aback by the suggestion. Since her brain is suddenly very muddled, she has to take a few gulps of liquid courage before summoning her rebuttal.

“You know what I love about LA?” she asks as she rests her chin on her wrist. “It never rains here. I mean, DC was built on a swamp, so when it rains there it gets really humid. Out here it’s dry. And dry... is wonderful,” she concludes with a wistful tone and a firm nod, amazed by her own profundity.

McKay raises an eyebrow at her. “I’m cutting you off, dude. That’s enough for tonight. You need some water.”

“Shit,” Lexi giggles, “I’m supposed to go to work after this.”

“No way,” McKay laughs and shakes his head. “You’re drunk. And it’s ten o’clock.”

“It’s _ten_?” Lexi grabs her phone and checks the time, then begins typing out a message to the detective. “Oh man, I’m late. Bennett’s gonna kill me.”

“Who’s Bennett?”

“My partner.”

McKay flashes another wide smile. “Lexi Howard’s finally back in the game! Who’s the lucky man?”

“Partner from the LAPD. We’re working a case together,” Lexi mumbles, feeling her face turn scarlet red as she flushes from the alcohol.

“Damn, you had me there for a second,” he laughs as he clutches his chest.

“How much have _you_ had to drink, Chris?”

“Just because I own a bar doesn’t mean I’m a heavyweight.”

When they stand up to leave she struggles to maintain her balance, the full physical effects of two and a half cranberry rums taking hold. McKay lets her use his arm for balance as he escorts her outside, where they stand on drunken legs, waiting at the curb in heavy silence. With so much left unsaid, Lexi feels completely inadequate to the challenge of resolving the underlying trauma they share.

“Chris, I’m sorry. I totally... I screwed this up. This was supposed to be a fun night and I screwed it up. I fucked it up for you again,” she rambles as she rears her head up to the sky. She wobbles a little bit and he stiffens his arm to help her stand straight.

“What are you talking about, Lex?”

“I don’t know. I just... messed it up. I’m sorry.” The thought of letting McKay down again, after everything that’s happened, twists Lexi’s stomach into guilty knots.

“You sure you should go to work right now?”

“If Bennett can work drunk so can I.”

McKay nods sagely. “Working drunk? Sounds like a great partner.”

“Hey!” Lexi snaps to the detective’s defense. “Not anymore. I don’t think.”

“Well, _I_ think you need to go home.”

“I’m fine.”

Of course, they both know Lexi’s bullshitting. She’s too far gone to sober up quickly, but she’s still functioning relatively well at this point. At least she thinks she is. She’s probably making an ass of herself and McKay’s just being polite.

He gives her a long look. “Can I be real with you for a second?” he leads, slurring a bit. He licks his lip and silently collects his thoughts before speaking again, while Lexi braces herself for whatever he’s about to say.

“Sometimes I worry about you.”

“You don’t need to,” she replies too quickly, trying to ward off the idea entirely.

McKay sighs and shakes his head. “It’s just... I wanna see you be okay, man.”

She wants that, too. But she also knows not to make false promises.

With no adequate reply to give him, Lexi wraps around him in a stiff attempt at a hug. She’s not an affectionate person anymore, but she knows McKay is, and she wants to provide comfort as best she can. Of course, if she were him, she’d shove herself away. So she’s surprised that he hugs her back just as tightly.

“I’m okay. I promise,” she affirms under her breath, her voice muffled against his jacket.

McKay blinks heavily as he pulls back. “Yeah, so am I,” he mutters. 

With Bennett’s BMW approaching, Lexi can sense her time with McKay draining to seconds. “We’re gonna meet... meet up again before you go. And we’re gonna talk.” Lexi’s voice cracks and she has to gulp down a lump in her throat, but she remains stern as she points her finger at him. “I’ll text you soon.”

He nods and pats her head. “Absolutely. Let’s... let’s do it. We’re gonna talk.”

* * *

As Rue pulls up to the bar, she observes Howard held tightly in the arms of a mystery man. She frowns, though she can’t place her disapproval to any one aspect of what she’s observing.

_So this is who Howard was with tonight._

The passenger door opens and Howard flops into her seat, waving again with a goofy smile. “I’ll text you. Imma do it,” she assures him.

“Wait, _that’s_ Bennett?” the mystery man leans down to the window and squints at Rue. “No offense, I thought you’d be a guy.”

“Not the first time someone’s thought that,” Rue admits with a shrug.

The man nods, unfazed by Rue as he smiles at Howard again. “Love you Lex,” he remarks casually as he closes her door. Rue can’t help but raise an eyebrow.

As the inside of the car darkens, Howard swivels back around to Rue with a mischievous smile. She’s wearing more makeup than usual, but it’s smudged just enough to look disheveled at this point. It’s a weirdly hot look for Howard, though Rue doesn’t think too deeply into this sentiment.

“Detective Bennett.”

“Senior Special Agent Howard,” Rue greets, matching Howard’s tone. “You good? Sure you want to go to the precinct right now?”

“I’m more sure... than I’ve ever been about anything,” Howard reassures her with slurred sincerity. “There’s a killer out here. And you and I”—she swings her finger between her and Rue—“we’re gonna find him.” She starts humming the tune to “One Way Or Another” as if to emphasize her point.

“You said it,” Rue affirms, suppressing a laugh as she pulls onto the road.

Once they veer out of traffic Rue sneaks another peak at the agent. She can’t help but notice how captivating Howard looks tonight, illuminated in flashes by the passing street lamps. It takes her a moment to realize that her eyes are on Howard when they should be on the road. Also, Howard’s staring back, and quite intensely.

“Why’re you looking at me?” Rue asks with a forced scowl as she grips the steering wheel harder.

“Cus I’m creepy.”

This answer catches Rue off-guard and draws a sincere laugh out of her, to Howard’s apparent satisfaction.

“You’re an odd one, Howard.” Rue clears her throat and then speaks up again, trying to take up a casual tone. “So who was that guy you were with on the curb?”

Howard squints as she tries to process the question. “Who... was I with?”

“Yeah. The guy you were literally clinging to at the bar.”

“McKay?”

“Sure, yeah, McKay,” Rue shrugs. “Is he like a boyfie? Ex with a complicated history? Sugar daddy?”—Howard furrows her brow against Rue’s onslaught of words, but Rue can’t stop herself—“Close friend with a will-they-or-won’t-they storyline? Star-crossed lover? Role play partner?”

“Why do you care?” Howard snaps, then cowers immediately after she speaks as if regretting her words.

“I... I don’t care,” Rue replies defensively, though even she isn’t convinced of her own answer. “Just making sure, y’know, he wasn’t some creep.”

“No, no. McKay’s not a creep.” Howard shakes her head vigorously for emphasis. “He’s... just someone from the past.”

 _Interesting_.

“Sounds like there’s a long story there,” Rue hums.

“Yeah, there is.”

Rue waits for Howard to continue, to share at least part of that story with her. Instead, Howard allows silence to settle between them. The end of “DHL” fills the car with Frank Ocean’s voice crooning over a slow, syrupy beat.

_So the product’s in the front_

_Got my partner in the front_

_Been my BF for a month_

_But we been fucking from the jump, jump, jump..._

There’s a heaviness to the silence now. Howard has retreated into herself, and stares out the window with a dejected expression.

“Hey, you want?” Rue asks as she extends her leftovers to Howard. Howard stares at the fries, half-eaten and thoroughly soggy, then snatches the basket eagerly.

Rue flips on her left turn signal as the car pulls up and stops at the red light. Just a couple more blocks to the precinct and the world’s most awkward car ride will be over.

Then Rue just has to look over and see Howard, a sight that crushes her. She recognizes the lost gaze in those glassy eyes, the same look Rue maintained in weeks of lonely, drunken nights after Jules left.

Here in the present Howard is intoxicated, emotional and clearly in no condition to work tonight. She needs to go home. Yet the idea of Howard drunk and alone doesn’t sit well with her either. Alcohol and isolation are a dangerous combo that puts you in a dark place, as Rue remembers well.

All she knows is that she can’t do nothing this time. She can’t repeat the same mistakes. Howard was there for her; now she’s going to be there for Howard. So Rue makes a judgement call, switching off her blinker and driving straight ahead instead of turning.


	15. Detour (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for 1000 hits. I sincerely appreciate your taking the time to read this story!

Lexi is dazed for the rest of the car ride, the world blurred out of focus. She doesn’t even notice until they pull up to a stark grey building that they are not, in fact, at the precinct.

“Where are we?” she questions through a mouthful of soggy fries.

Bennett tips her head to the door. “Come on, follow me.”

“Why are you so ominous all the time?” she groans, rolling her eyes. Bennett blinks quickly, taken aback by her uncharacteristic directness.

“Here’s my impression of you,” Lexi continues before tucking in her chin and deepening her voice: ‘Hey Lexi, let’s go do this really sketchy thing. And I’m gonna wait until the last second to”— _hic_ —“to actually tell you what’s happening. Oh and also guess what, you might get shot.”

“Shut up,” Bennett mutters as she cracks a grin despite herself, clearly amused by Lexi’s antics. She pauses for a moment and taps her fingertips against her palms (a habit of Bennett’s that Lexi’s noticed many times).

“This is my, uh... The place where I live.”

 _Oh god_. The mere idea of being in Bennett’s home right now, in her condition (drunk, sad, tired) sends a pulse of dread through Lexi.

“Bennett...”

The detective raises her hands defensively. “Look, it’s just that, I’ll be honest. I’m kind of, uh...” She clears her throat, still struggling with her words like she’s forcing them out. “Worried. At the moment. About you.”

It takes Lexi a moment to understand what Bennett’s saying, and when it finally clicks for her she bursts out laughing. She probably looks like she’s lost her mind, but how else is she supposed to react? The irony of this situation is remarkable. That Bennett is worried about her, instead of the other way around, means Lexi must come across as pretty tragic in her current state.

She settles into a sigh and rubs her forehead, her eyes dropping to her lap. “Bennett, there’s something you need to know,” she starts to explain, interrupted by another hiccup before continuing. “Tonight I have consumed... a fair amount of alcohol.”

“Wow, I couldn’t tell.”

“Seriously. You shouldn’t be around me right now.”

“Because I’m an alcoholic?”

“Yeah. That.” Something about Bennett’s assertion of this fact discomforts Lexi.

“I think I’ll be okay. You, I’m not so sure about.” The words don’t sound quite right coming out of Bennett’s mouth, even though Lexi knows Bennett means them.

If she were the type of person who could say no, Lexi would say no. It’d almost be selfish of her to accept, because Bennett is struggling too. She doesn’t need to be dragged into Lexi’s world. Better to play it safe, keep everything tucked away. And after her erratic behavior tonight, Lexi can’t trust herself to keep it hidden. She was half a cranberry rum away from coming undone before McKay cut her off. It’s embarrassing, really. She can only imagine what her mom would say right now: _“Little miss perfect broke bad, huh? Doesn’t surprise me, I always knew you’d end up like your old lady eventually.”_

Well, Suze is right—Lexi isn’t perfect. Case in point: she’s about to ignore those perfectly good reasons to say no. She feels tears building behind her eyes and desperately tries to blink them away as she nods, reluctantly accepting Bennett’s overture.

“Hey, it’s all good,” Bennett assures her with a gentle tone that Lexi doesn’t recognize. Lexi searches her partner’s eyes and recognizes not just sincerity, but even a sliver of peace that she hadn’t seen in the detective before tonight.

On the way into the building Lexi finds that each step is increasingly labored by growing dizziness, which slowly replaces the pleasant buzz of drunkenness. They’re both quiet now, and Lexi can’t tell if this one’s an awkward or a comfortable silence.

When she stumbles walking into the elevator Bennett reaches out to stabilize her. The feel of Bennett’s hold against the small of her back sends those now-familiar warm tingles throughout Lexi’s body, a sensation she’s grown to simultaneously love and hate in their passing touches. Of course Lexi goes rigid at the touch, but there that pesky hand remains, steadying her while the world spins.

“Home sweet home,” Bennett mutters sarcastically when she swings the door to her apartment open.

Lexi steps inside and surveys the near-empty residence: the main room consists of only a futon and small TV sitting on a cardboard box. It’s devoid of decoration, save for some newspaper articles from her past cases that Bennett has taped up to the walls. Honestly, it’s a pretty depressing living situation even by Lexi’s standards.

“Where’s the rest?”

“Jules took it with her,” Bennett replies, her tone flat. She tugs Lexi’s sleeve, leading her into a bedroom that’s as stark as the living room save for a bed, dresser, and nightstand.

“Sit,” the detective orders as she pushes Lexi’s shoulders down to sit on the edge of the bed. While Bennett rummages through her drawers for some pajamas, Lexi clamps her eyes shut and tries to understand how exactly the night has taken her here.

She’s snapped back to life when Bennett tosses a t-shirt and shorts on Lexi’s lap, startling her from her dazed stupor.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Lexi asks as she tightens her grip on Bennett’s clothes.

“Are you gonna be sick?”

“No, I need to change in there.”

Bennett points her to the bathroom, smirking at her partner’s shyness. Modesty has never felt so embarrassing.

* * *

While the agent does whatever she’s doing in the bathroom, Rue stretches out on her side of the bed and yawns. She’ll just wait for Howard to finish up, say her adieu, and crash on the futon. It’s not that complicated.

Except that Rue just has to keep analyzing the situation and now that she thinks about it, it’s extremely complicated.

Rue starts to tap her fingertips against her palms, her mind cataloging the risks.

The agent is basically a stranger to Rue. Rue was reminded of this when she arrived at the bar to see Howard in the embrace of a man. But that shouldn’t be a surprise—Howard’s the one with the life, remember? Rue grimaces at the thought, provoked by a similar twinge of either curiosity or jealousy.

Perhaps the worst part is that she doesn’t know what’s driving this. Is Howard here because Rue actually cares, or because she’s afraid of relapsing, afraid of being alone tonight? Is she doing the right thing, or is she setting Howard up to fail just like Jules?

Oh, and Jules—what would Jules think of this? Would she be hurt? Would she even care? Rue finds herself wishing that Jules knew (she doesn’t), and that Rue could prove she’s moved on (she hasn’t). Better or worse, this is what life after Jules looks like.

Just as she almost loses herself in thought, she hears the ominous sounds of getting sick after a long night of drinking. “Did you make it in the toilet?” she calls out. There’s a long, concerning pause before Howard finally replies, her voice barely audible through the bathroom door.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” the agent confirms, “all in there.”

_Damn, Howard’s messed up tonight._

Using the breathing technique Dr. Harmon taught her, Rue is able to ground herself from her panicking. Yet the stress remains. She’s never been good with emotions, never known the appropriate way to comfort someone. Sometimes she even makes it worse—when Jules’ dad died, Rue stayed at work as much as possible to avoid interfering with her grief. Jules interpreted this as Rue abandoning her (maybe she had a point there).

What could she possibly have to offer Howard now? There’s a reason she doesn’t trust anyone and no one trusts her. She’s nuts. She’s baggage. She’s emotionally radioactive. Basically, she’s bad for people. So by bringing Howard here tonight, is she really doing the agent any favors?

* * *

The sour taste of bile still in her mouth, Lexi cleans herself up as best she can in her impaired state. She gargles mouthwash twice and scrubs the makeup off of her face, even manages to take out her contacts. She’s in a weird headspace at the moment—not quite drunk anymore, but definitely not sober either (though fortunately her nausea has lessened since throwing up). All she can do now is splash more water on her face and try to brace herself for whatever awaits her on the other side of the door.

She realizes just how cold the detective’s bedroom is when she steps out of the bathroom, feeling chills run down her bare arms and legs in the frigid air.

Bennett, now dressed in a t-shirt and pajama shorts, is flopped across her side of the bed with her hands folded neatly on her stomach. She opens one eye when Lexi creeps up and stands at the opposite side of the bed.

“Feel any better?”

Lexi nods, then clears her throat. “A little.” She looks down at the covers wearily and feels the pace of her heart quickening again.

_You can still back out now._

Then, as always, she naively forges ahead. After peeling back the covers and slowly sliding underneath, she curls into a ball under the heavy blankets—she came here to feel better, and a soft bed is just the type of creature comfort she needs right now.

She yawns as she nestles in, feeling the full effects of her exhaustion taking hold. Apparently taking this as a cue to leave, Bennett grabs a pillow and green blanket and moves to the doorway.

“Where are you going?” Lexi croaks, cringing at the apparent weakness in her voice.

“You can have the bed,” Bennett offers with an awkward but genuine little smile. “I’ll be on the futon if you need me. Sleep tight.”

Lexi’s mind begins to race in the seconds before Bennett closes the door behind her. Now, she doesn’t often speak impulsively. She has a great filter for that sort of thing as long as her rational brain is in control. But sometimes, when she wants something badly enough, her heart will circumvent her filter, resulting in Lexi doing or saying something very stupid and reckless. This is one such instance.

“Wait! You don’t have to!” she almost shouts to keep Bennett from closing the door, then cowers from her own outburst. “Sleep on the futon, that is. You don’t have to sleep on the futon. If you want.”

 _What am I thinking?_ Her rational brain rages against her as her heart thuds against her chest. But it’s too late to turn back now.

The seconds pass like hours as she awaits Bennett’s decision. Bennett looks at the futon, then back at Lexi lying in her bed, then back to the futon and back at her bed. Lexi can see the wheels turning in her head and braces for humiliating rejection.

Then, to Lexi’s immense relief and quiet exhilaration, Bennett moves back into the bedroom. After turning off the light she slides under the covers so they face each other. Their eyes shift up and down nervously until they meet each other’s, both of them calmed by her steadying contact.

Lexi drinks in her view: the moon’s full tonight, and the way its cloud-filtered light casts on Bennett, beautifully highlighting the detective’s features, only intoxicates Lexi more deeply. 

_Keep it together, Lex..._

Bennett’s looking at her just as intensely. She just wishes she knew what the detective is thinking behind those shining hazel eyes, because Lexi has a lot of questions. Most importantly, what does Bennett want from her? Unwilling to tip her hand, the detective only stares back with an unreadable expression.

Bennett’s both close and far away in more ways than one. There are about twelve inches of healthy platonic distance between them—a lot, but not much at all. It’s the perfect distance to absolutely torture Lexi. She’s not drunk enough to do anything rash, but she’s definitely drunk enough to think about the mistakes she wants to make with Bennett. All she has to do is bridge that platonic twelve-inch divide and she could actually touch Bennett—not just in a passing, teasing way like she and Bennett have touched before. This time Lexi could really feel her partner. 

_Where to start?_

Her lips, of course. That’s what started this whole mess, hypnotizing Lexi from the moment she laid eyes on them in a victim’s bathroom.

Lexi’s eyes leave Bennett’s lips, moving down to the nape of her neck. She lingers here for a moment then goes lower, past the collarbone which peaks out from under the detective’s t-shirt. Her mouth goes dry as she ventures still lower to Bennett’s chest, where Lexi uses her imagination to envision what’s underneath. 

She stops herself here, curbing this idea before it frustrates her too much. Of course nothing will actually happen tonight. Doing so would damage their partnership and impair their work on the case. Not to mention one consequential fact: despite the fact that they’re sharing a bed tonight, Bennett doesn’t see her the same way. There’s no part of Bennett that’s attracted to her beyond the way an invested work partner would be.

“What a shit show of a day,” Lexi mutters under her breath, once again rehashing the events leading up to her current predicament. She can feel her frustration starting to build up, the sequence of events confusing her with its lack of logic.

“Seriously? Your theory broke our case open and you think that’s a bad day? I miss Annoyingly Optimistic Howard.”

Lexi shakes her head. “It’s not just that. More about... everything else,” she sighs, wrapping her finger around a loose string on the blanket.

“Oh, you mean your actual life?”

“Do I even have one of those at this point?”

“You have more of a life than I do,” Bennett remarks with a hint of bitterness in her voice.

_If only that were true._

She takes a deep breath and hiccups again, afraid she’s speaking out of turn. But she knows if she can’t gain some clarity it’ll eat her up inside for the rest of the night.

“Bennett, why am I here?”

“Well, that’s one of the great philosophical questions of our time.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean. Why am I at your house?”

Bennett doesn’t answer at first. “I don’t know,” she eventually replies with honest inflection. She licks her lips and hesitates, appearing uncertain of what she’s saying as she looks deeply at Lexi. “Guess I’m following the ribbon.”

Lexi doesn’t say anything at first while she processes the reference. It takes her a moment to finally understand, but when she does she snickers and slaps Bennett’s arm.

“What? You love that melodramatic shit,” Bennett teases her. As she laughs, she exhales light breaths on Lexi’s face that only torment Lexi with reminders of their close proximity. In the moment of shared laughter, Lexi thinks the detective probably knows her too well.

Unfortunately, this notion is quickly shattered. “Hey, you know what?” Bennett says eagerly, “when you did that impression of me in the car, you told me your first name—Lexi.”

“I told you my name twice on the first day we met, dummy,” Lexi groggily mutters into her pillow.

Bennett furrows her brow. “Shit, I forgot. You did, didn’t you?”

“Mhmm.” Lexi cracks one eye open and narrows it at Bennett. “Which is messed up, because I still don’t know your name.”

“And you’re not going to. It’s dumb.”

Disappointed by this answer, Lexi huffs and flips over to escape Bennett’s direct gaze before settling in to go to sleep. The night should’ve ended a long time ago, anyway.

“ _Pssst_ , Howard.”

Lexi ignores the detective’s beckoning and hunches her shoulder up to signal her dejection. Bennett doesn’t give up, though.

“Hey, Howard. Howard. _Psst_ , Howard. Howwwwwaaaaard.”

When Bennett starts to shake Lexi’s shoulder, Lexi flips over again and leans closer to Bennett, tensed in frustration. “What do you want?”

“Quid pro quo,” the detective whispers. “An exchange of intelligence.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you my first name… if you tell me about McKay.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place? Why do you make everything sound like a scene from a Bond movie?”

“Because it’s my thing! It’s— You know what, doesn’t matter. Do you want to or not?”

Another conversation loaded with potential for complications. Another potentially fatal mistake. Another request Lexi can’t say no to.

“Fine. But not tonight.”

“Why not?” Bennett frowns. 

Because Lexi’s already made enough mistakes today and she’s not going to add to that list by opening up about this topic right now. For Bennett, however, she goes with a shorter answer: “Because I’m still kind of drunk.” 

Bennett hums in disapproval but doesn’t argue with her reasoning.

Lexi turns to lie on her back and tucks the blankets under her chin. She can only imagine what the detective must think of her after her behavior tonight, and self-conscious thoughts spawn beads of sweat on her hairline.

“I swear this isn’t like me—going out, getting hammered. I never do this.”

“Somehow I don’t doubt that,” Bennett concurs as she runs her fingers along the hem of the blanket. 

“It was because of this damn day.” Lexi sighs and wipes the sweat from her brow. “It was just... too much. Makes you feel like you don’t have anything left to give.”

“Do you feel like that a lot?”

She thinks carefully before answering, recognizing the fine line between honesty and endangerment. “Sometimes, I guess. And just not being enough in general.”

Bennett stops playing with the blanket’s hem and looks at Lexi from the corners of her eyes. “What exactly makes someone ‘enough’?”

“I don’t know. Do you know?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out since Jules left. If I weren’t... the way that I am, would she have stayed?”

Though her heart breaks for Bennett (and it does—it’s absolutely shattered by this), Lexi has no cold comforts or platitudes to convey for this sentiment. All she can do is give her the same response she always tells herself.

“Maybe there isn’t an answer.”

“There’s _always_ an answer,” Bennett states, and Lexi finds the detective’s expression firm with conviction. 

“If you think there’s always an answer, you’re gonna lose your mind trying to find it.”

Bennett frowns in apparent disapproval.

“Sometimes horrible things just happen,” Lexi continues undissuaded, “and there’s no rhyme or reason to it. Could you have prevented it? Sure, maybe. But it’s too late now.”

“Jeez, Howard.” Bennett has a preoccupied look on her face now like she’s trying to figure out what Lexi really meant. Her silence makes Lexi want to shrivel and disappear, regretting her unintentionally ominous words.

“Sorry for... making things weird,” she murmurs and tightens her arms around herself.

“Can I give you another piece of advice?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t apologize when you have nothing to be sorry for.”

Over the last two years Lexi’s gotten used to the hurt, even comfortable with it. By now it presents as a dull ache rooted in the back of her mind—constantly present, constantly weighing on her even when her attention is elsewhere. But a fundamental shift occurs when Bennett speaks her advice into existence, as if Bennett’s rebroken Lexi’s wound so that it can heal properly. It doesn’t lessen the pain, but it does provide a semblance of consolation in its midst. All Lexi can offer in reply is a goofy little smile, which the detective accepts with a smile of her own. 

The night could’ve ended here and Lexi would’ve chalked it up as a good ending to a hard day. But then Bennett just has to go and rock Lexi’s world. 

After a beat of silence, Bennett reaches her hand up and, with the tips of her fingers, begins to slowly trace back and forth along Lexi’s jaw line, from cheek to chin.

From the moment Bennett forges contact Lexi’s eyes go wide, and she has to consciously unwind her rigid muscles while her heart threatens to beat out of her chest. She knows there’s a mistake being made somewhere in here, and it’s going to come back and bite them sooner or later. And despite being very aware of all of this, she can’t bring herself to stop what’s unfolding. Because someone she wants is offering something she needs, and when was the last time someone honestly, genuinely took care of her, instead of the other way around?

No more fighting the feeling. She closes her eyes, concentrates on the detective’s long fingers brushing against her skin, and melts under the soothing touch. Tonight the unfamiliar is comforting for a change.

* * *

Lulled by Rue, Howard dozes off quickly. Remarkably, Rue manages to sleep soon after.

Until she doesn’t. Her insomnia catches up with her around 3 AM, when she finds herself staring at the ceiling like always. The only difference is that tonight someone’s next to her. 

Rue had forgotten what this feels like—to wake up with the warm presence of someone sharing her bed. Save for the handful of times she had sloppy rebound sex after the breakup, Rue hasn’t shared a bed with anyone since Jules.

Jules, who had once held Rue every night as they fell asleep. Then moved to the futon as they drifted apart. Then was gone entirely.   
  


_“It’s like you’re not even trying anymore.”_

_Rue stood rooted in place, too stunned by Jules’ verbal blows to respond._

_“Are you gonna stop me? That’s what the old Rue would’ve done,” Jules challenged, her hand moving to the doorknob as she tightened her grip on her suitcase. “She would’ve fought for me to stay.”_

_Rue knew she should speak up. She should’ve fought like Jules wanted her to. But in that moment there was no fight left in her. Weeks of 12-hour work days and rapid cycling had left her too emotionally depleted for more conflict._

_Jules swallowed back tears. She was tired too, after all. Tired enough to decide this wasn’t worth it anymore._ _As she stepped through the door Rue suddenly regained some agency, the prospect of a Jules-less future crashing into her like a bomb strike._

 _“Wait—please don’t.”_ _Jules stopped and turned around at the sound of Rue’s quivering voice. “_ _You’re all I have.”_

_Jules paused for a moment, turning the words over in her mind, then gave Rue a look of pity._

_“I’m sorry. It’s what’s best for both of us.”_

The sound of ragged breathing detours her mind from Jules to Howard, who’s in the throes of an apparently bad dream. Rue watches as her chest heaves deeply and her face tightens and twitches, a whimper escaping from her clenched jaw.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Rue whispers to the sleeping girl as she brushes a stray hair out of her face.

It’s so much easier to express your concern when the other person isn’t listening, which negates the risk of showing them you care.

Eventually Howard settles down, visibly relaxing as her breath evens out. Rue flips over and tries to sleep, but at this point her brain’s too wired with the usual suspects of intrusive thoughts. So she slips out of bed and goes to get Howard a glass of water and some hangover pills for the morning. As Rue stands in the cold darkness of the kitchen pouring water from the tap, her mind wanders again in the way minds tend to do in the middle of the night. 

Howard asked her why she was here and Rue couldn’t give a straight answer. Because Rue has no idea. In the moment she was just following her gut, choosing conscience over consequence.

What she realizes now, however, is that the person in her bed isn’t just anyone—it’s her (former?) partner in a career-defining case. And right now there are more important things at stake than whatever’s going on with Howard. 

She scoffs at the thought. _Who am I kidding?_

She knows she’s lying to herself, downplaying this “thing” with Howard because it’s dangerous. Rue’s letting someone in, and letting someone in has never led to anything good for that someone or for Rue. 

The thoughts hit her like daggers that rob her of breath. 

She is making a mistake right now. Fucking up. 

She’s going to regret this. 

She’s going to be hurt again. 

Because the truth is that she actually cares about this person, this ‘Howard,’ and that only means something bad—

She jolts out of her spiral from an icy cold sensation as water spills from the overflowing glass in her hand.

“Shit!”

She wipes her hand on her shirt, then tries to sprint back to the bedroom without spilling any water like she often does when the nighttime darkness starts to freak her out. When she climbs back into bed and feels Howard next to her again, she’s able to ease up a bit and catch her breath. Something about the agent’s presence overrides Rue’s erratic mind, levels her and anchors her. Very few people have that effect on Rue, and she really hadn’t expected to find this in Howard. Just another thing to appreciate about her partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think???? Big things happening with our girls rn


	16. Strictly Business

Lexi’s Saturday morning-after begins with the hard smack of a pillow at 6:44 AM.

“Up! Upupup!”

While she’s still shaking off the initial confusion of having woken up in a strange bed, Bennett lobs a bombshell at her: “They arrested Tyler Clarkson! We gotta hurry, he’s at the precinct right now.”

“Tyler Clarkson...” Lexi squints and rubs her forehead, trying to alleviate the pounding ache behind her eyes. “That’s the Strangler guy?”

“Take these and drink this,” Bennett advises as she shoves three brown pills and a glass of water into her hands.

Lexi holds the pills up to eye-level to examine. “What are they?”

“Listen: there’s no such thing as a miracle cure for a hangover, but those bad boys are as close as you can get.”

Lexi just shrugs, pops the pills and chugs the whole glass of the water. It’s easier not to ask at this point.

Besides, she has more important questions. First and foremost: _what the hell happened last night?_

* * *

One overriding thought beats like a drum in Rue’s mind: _hurry, hurry, hurry._ This may be her only opportunity to talk to Tyler Clarkson before the FBI steps in and snags him away. 

Unfortunately Howard’s still feeling the effects of her little outing, subsequently slowing them both down. Rue’s almost ready to go by the time Howard staggers out of bed, frowning as she holds up her wrinkled dress from the night before.

“I can’t wear this to work.”

“Why not?” Rue questions as she slathers on some deodorant. “I always look like I slept in my clothes.”

“Seriously, Bennett. Think about what Daniel would say.” 

Swayed by Howard’s pout, Rue grabs some clothes from her drawer, sniffs for freshness, then tosses them at the disheveled agent. Instead of changing in the bathroom like the night before, Howard peels her shirt off right in front of Rue, exposing her taut, pale stomach for Rue to catch a glimpse. Rue’s eyes move up to the black bra on Howard’s chest just as the agent conceals the view with her new shirt. 

_Too many distractions in here._

Rue quickly brushes her teeth then runs back into the bedroom, where Howard is still wobbling around like a lost kid in a grocery store. “These pants are too big,” she whines, kicking her foot up to show that the pant leg reaches her toes. 

Rue grabs some suspenders from the floor and tosses them at the agent, who isn’t looking as they hit her in the face. “Shit, sorry.”

Howard rubs her face and frowns again, squinting at the suspenders. “Can you help me untangle them?”

“Dude, you wear suspenders everyday.”

“I took my contacts out, I can’t see anything!” she snaps, then rubs her forehead again. “What was in those pills?”

“Nothing that won’t pass a drug test,” Rue assures her as she hands the untangled suspenders back to the agent. “Let’s roll, Howard. We’ve got a suspect to talk to!”

From the time Rue says “let’s roll,” it still takes fourteen minutes to get them into the car. While Howard leans against the window and nurses her hangover, Rue weaves through traffic with the skill of a seasoned LA driver, rambling about the witness and her suspicions along the way.

Before long, however, she detects palpable tension. Howard’s mood has shifted from whiny to sullen, though Rue’s not sure whether it’s because of the hangover, the news about Tyler, or what happened between them the night before.

She shifts her weight in the seat, plotting how to breach the subject. “So, uh, how much do you remember from last night?”

“Not much,” the agent shrugs, still cradling her head against the window.

“Cus you were pretty lit.”

“Yep,” she affirms, followed by silence.

_She's pulling away from you._

Rue tries to suppress the thought. Howard doesn’t feel well, plus she’s clearly dealing with some personal shit. Clearly her bad mood definitely nothing to do with Rue.

But what if it _is_ Rue’s fault, though? She can’t ignore the voice in the back of her head playing devil’s advocate.

She knew she went too far last night. She knew it and she still did it. As partners she and Howard had a good thing going, then Rue just had to mess it up like she always does. All she wanted was to help and now they can’t even look at each other.

The precinct offers no respite from Rue’s angst, as hordes of cops and agents have already packed the halls leading to the interrogation room.

“We’re too late,” she concedes as she sighs and rests her hands on her hips. When she’s met with no response from Howard she turns and finds the agent gone.

“Shit.” 

For her own sake, she chooses to believe that Howard got lost in the crowd and didn’t just ditch her.

Feeling renewed panic from the smothering atmosphere, she searches for a familiar face in the crowd. Eventually she finds Captain Ali talking on the phone in the corner, and based on the erratic hand gestures and his clinched jaw, Rue can already tell he’s in a worse mood than Howard.

“This isn’t a question of jurisdiction, it’s—. No, no. Well I—. Fine. I’ll talk to you later.” The captain snaps his 2005-era flip phone shut as Rue approaches. “We’re being called off. FBI’s the only one who can talk to Clarkson.”

Rue’s anxiety is immediately eclipsed by a pulse of anger. “They hijacked our case _again_?”

“It’s not just the FBI. LAPD’s commissioner wants nothing to do with this.”

“So we can’t even talk to Tyler?”

Captain Ali shakes his head with a grimace. “FBI’s got him locked down. They said we could only watch the interview from the observation room.”

“Those fuckers...” Rue growls venomously, then realizes that said group of ‘fuckers’ includes Howard.

“Look,” the captain continues, “there’s evidence against him, it’s good enough for the prosecutor, FBI wants the case and LAPD wants to move on. It’s a win for everyone except the bad guy.” He sounds skeptical as he speaks, unconvinced by the logic espoused by his superiors.

“But he could still help us—.”

Ali shakes his head again with a remorseful smile. “I’m sorry, Bennett. There’s nothing I can do. I’d talk to the ASAC but it wouldn’t help. Let’s just say McMurray and I are not on the best of terms.”

She knows the captain well enough to recognize the finality of his tone. There’s no room for debate. Feeling the sting of defeat, she makes her way to the observation room.

Watching an interrogation from the observation room is like watching the kids at the cool table while you eat by yourself. Having been requisitioned in the tiny side room, where she can only see the interview through a thick plate of one-way glass, Rue feels her resentment toward the whole situation only growing. The last 30 minutes have been a showcase of bush-league interrogation tactics that’s been frankly painful to watch at times.

“This is bullshit. We should be in there too,” Perez growls from the corner. 

“Why are you guys even here? This isn’t your case.”

“Isn’t yours either, anymore,” Johnson retorts without missing a beat.

Well, he’s kind of got a point. “Fuckin’ feds.”

“Damn straight,” Perez nods in solidarity.

At least Rue still has a woman on the inside—at least she thinks she does.

Agent Howard sits at the ASAC’s right hand, directly across from the suspect while McMurray and another agent lob question after question at him. For her part, Howard sits in stony silence. A couple of times her jaw shifts like she’s going to talk, but nothing comes out. Rue can’t help but wonder when or if she’s going to speak up. 

Then there’s Tyler Clarkson, the supposed Strangler himself and the star of the show. As McMurray rattles off the evidence against him he claims his innocence vehemently but struggles to explain himself. 

Rue thought she’d be convinced of Tyler’s guilt after seeing him in person, but his shaking hands and tear-stained face only prompt more questions. On first impression he lacks the hallmarks of a practiced killer, such as impulsivity, callousness, narcissism. And unless he’s an exceptional faker, he has enough emotional capacity not to be considered psychopathic or sociopathic. But Rue’s no psychologist and she’s not about to conduct a full assessment.

She pulls the wax paper off of a lollipop and pretends it’s a cigarette. “This guy killed 20 people. You think he‘d at least be a little intimating.”

Perez scoffs at the notion. “Everyone thinks they’re bad till they’re in handcuffs.”

“Guys, shut up,” Hernandez barks as she whips her head around and glares at them. “I can’t hear what they’re saying.”

Rue reaches over and turns up the volume on the intercom, filling the observation room with the ASAC’s voice. “—vious advantage of your evening job as an Uber driver would be your access to areas of the city under non-suspicious circumstances. In fact, Mr. Clarkson, you made visits near the homes of the deceased on the night of almost every victim’s murder.”

“I’m telling you man, I’ve never hurt any of these women,” he restates weakly.

“So it’s just a crazy coincidence? You just happened to be in the area of each victim’s residence on the same night and approximate time of each of their deaths?” The ASAC’s clearly perfected condescension, even if his interrogation skills need some serious work. 

“I’m just a driver,” Tyler pleads. “Swear to god, when I get the calls I just sit in my car and wait for them to come out. That’s it. That’s all.”

“What about using their showers?” the ASAC prompts.

Clarkson looks between the three agents with an expression of genuine bewilderment. “Is this real? Am I on a prank show?”

“Your hair’s been linked by DNA to multiple victims’ showers. That’s including Sara Villarreal’s.”

Rue’s blood starts to boil—this is Howard’s theory and she should be the one asking the questions. But she just sits there, silent and unmoving. 

Clarkson rests his head in his hands, clearly exasperated and confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s the story you’re going with?”

“It’s the truth, man. I swear on my mom’s life.” Clarkson’s voice breaks like he’s trying to swallow a lump in his throat. Sensing his emotion, the agents allow a long pause.

When the silence is broken Rue’s heart skips a beat. Howard finally speaks up, though Rue barely recognizes her voice.

“Mr. Clarkson, I’d like to ask you about the evening of September 24th.”

“I don’t—.”

“At 10 PM on September 24th,” Howard interrupts, “you were treated for superficial injuries to your hands and face at the Paloma Care Clinic. You claimed you received these wounds during an attempted mugging?”

“I was the _victim_ ,” Clarkson exclaims as his voice rises to a pitch. 

“Yet you received these injuries on the same night as Mara Kemp’s death?”

“Who the hell is Mara Kemp?” He slaps his hand on the table in frustration.

The Howard that Rue knows would have shied away from further confrontation. But now Howard doesn’t flinch at the outburst and continues with acerbic tenacity.

“Mara Kemp was killed in her home on the evening of September 24, defending herself from the Sandman Strangler.”

She carefully lays a set of photos from the crime scene in front of Tyler, allowing him to take in the gruesome images before him. He covers his mouth with his hand and clamps his eyes shut.

“The cause of death was a subdural hemorrhage caused by a full-thickness scalp contusion. She also suffered a stellate, full-thickness laceration on the superior occipital portion of the scalp.”

“I don’t know what—.”

“She tried to fight back,” Howard cuts off, “and her killer grabbed a table lamp and beat her with it. He beat her so badly that they had to use dental records to ID the body. Took four days to scrub the blood and brain off the walls. No open casket at the funeral for her family.” Her tone is cold, businesslike, unrecognizable—far removed from the amiable, sensitive agent Rue’s gotten to know over the last few weeks.

However bleak, Howard’s questioning serves an important function. Somewhere along the way the violence was diluted, the victims reduced to numbers. Now she’s reintroduced a human element, reminding all involved just how ruinous these killings have been for dozens of families. The reminder effects a heavy silence in both the interrogation and observation rooms.

“Now I’m going to ask you again,” Howard pushes, leaning closer to him. “Were the injuries you received on September 24th related to or caused by Mara Kemp?” 

Clarkson is legitimately speechless as he tries to process what he’s just been told, too shocked to summon a verbal reply. Then he breaks down, descending into a show of full weeping. 

“I think we’ve heard enough for now,” the ASAC mutters, sneering at the suspect.

Hernandez turns around, eyes wide. “Holy shit, Agent Howard’s not playing today.”

“Yeah, they let the pit bull off the leash,” Johnson agrees with a wry smile.

It probably doesn’t need to be said at this point, but Rue absolutely fucking hates Daniel Johnson. 

While Tyler Clarkson is escorted out of the room Rue keeps her eyes fixed on Howard. By now she knows the agent’s tells when she’s upset: she might wrap her arms around herself, get a funny far-off look in her eye, or pinch her lips into a straight line. But Howard is statuesque again, her face blank and her unfocused eyes trained on her notepad.

Perez blocks Rue’s gaze as she leans against the glass. “So what’s your plan now?”

Rue bobs her head back and forth, wishing she could shove Perez and her dumb conversation aside, then gives up with a sigh. “I’m gonna keep working on my case.”

“No, but like, what are you actually gonna do? Since they got the Strangler?”

“The FBI’s only investigating Tyler Clarkson, not the whole Strangler case. So I’m gonna keep operating under the assumption that Tyler’s not our guy.”

“How is he not the guy?” Perez frowns. “Kat, tell her that he’s the guy.”

”You can’t argue with DNA,” Hernandez concurs.

“Well then I hope I’m wasting my time.”

“Oh my god, you’re impossible,” Perez groans and rolls her eyes. She pushes off of the glass and strolls away with Johnson and Hernandez, leaving the lone skeptic on her own. Maybe Perez and Hernandez are convinced that Tyler Clarkson’s the Strangler, but Rue’s not so sure.

Deep in thought, it takes a moment for her to realize that Howard’s not in the interrogation room anymore.

“Well, shit.”

She’s been saying that a lot today.

* * *

When you’re in a bathroom stall time has a way of pausing, offering momentary breathing space from the outside world. And breathing space is just what Lexi needs at the moment.

She’s still teeming with adrenaline as she slams the stall door behind her. She hates getting so worked up about a case, and an interrogation is the worst possible time and place to do it. 

Now’s her chance to relax. The Strangler’s been caught. Lexi’s done her job and cleaned up the streets. She should give herself a pat on the back.

But she doesn’t feel satisfied, nor does she feel safe. As usual, she’s found plenty to be angry with herself about. She let her personal hang ups affect her questioning of a suspect. She let herself use alcohol as a coping mechanism. And she let last night with Bennett happen.

Throughout the morning she’s been re-remembering the night before in pieces, and as the memories flash into her head she tries to order them in a timeline.

There are the downright embarrassing moments: crying with McKay, crying while eating fries in Bennett’s car, puking in Bennett’s toilet...

Then there are the recollections that are really distressing. 

She and Bennett shared a bed. They shared conversations bordering on intimate, maybe even crossing that line. And there’s one more memory, though she’s not sure if it’s real or if it was a dream—had Bennett really touched her face? Surely that hadn’t actually happened, though Lexi swears she can still feel the path Bennett’s fingers traced along her jaw. 

The thought alone is agonizing. They were so close, close enough for Bennett to touch her face. Close enough for Lexi to have been able to kiss her (thank god she didn’t). Isn’t this what she wanted—to be closer to the detective?

Maybe it's what she wants, but it's not what's best. For years she’s carefully compartmentalized the professional and the personal as best she could. Now Bennett’s colliding these worlds faster than Lexi can stop her, and no matter how strong her attraction to the detective, she can’t let that happen. She’s worked too hard to mend herself back together over the past two years, even if it meant walling herself off and locking away certain parts.

_You’re being pathetic. You're fine. Get back out there._

With a deep breath she swings open the stall door to see a tall, blurry figure looming in front of her, their shoulders bowed up like they’re ready to strike.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Instinctively flinging herself backwards, Lexi bumps against the toilet and almost falls onto the floor before she catches herself against the wall. 

“Wow, and I thought I was a spazz.” Though the figure is still blurry Lexi instantly recognizes Bennett’s deadpan.

She braces against the walls of the stall with shaking hands, gulping for air. “How long have you been standing out there?” 

“Twelve minutes.”

“You... scared the crap out of me.” Her voice cracks despite herself, either from anger or residual fear. “I think we need to talk about establishing some boundaries. Like not following each other into bathrooms.”

“What we _need_ to talk about is this Tyler guy.” 

Lexi pushes past the detective to wash her hands and Bennett follows close behind.

“Doesn’t he look different from what you thought the Strangler would look like? I mean, long blonde hair and a square chin? That’s about the compete opposite of the description we had.”

“I guess. Not like we ever had a good description of him anyway. What’s your point?”

“My _point_ ,” Bennett replies with a jab of her finger, “is that we shouldn’t rush to conclusions. If Tyler’s the Strangler, great. Job well done. But what if he’s not?”

“There’s a DNA link to multiple—.”

“I know, I know.” After a beat of silence Bennett crosses her arms and frowns. “Why are you washing your hands so long?”

Suddenly self-conscious, Lexi looks down at her hands then back at Bennett. “This is a totally normal amount of time!” She steps back and grabs a handful of paper towels while Bennett continues to trail her.

“That’s it! You should measure his hands!” Bennett exclaims, startling Lexi again. 

“What?”

“Measure his hands. See if they match the size of the prints on Sara Villarreal‘s neck.”

“That’s... not a bad idea, actually.”

“Why do you sound surprised? I’m full of great ideas.”

“I know you are,” Lexi agrees passively. Though she knows the detective has just as many bad ones, she doesn’t have much room to disagree since Bennett’s blocking the door. 

“Look,” said detective goes on as she almost corners Lexi, “we gotta be thorough. No stones unturned. Just like you said, remember?”

“I’m not sure how much I can help. I’m only supposed to focus on Tyler.”

“Come on,” Bennett cajoles, “let’s do quid pro quo.”

“You keep saying that term in different ways—.”

“Irrelevant, focus. We can help each other here, Howard. I’ll help you with Tyler and you can help with the witnesses.”

This is exactly the worlds-colliding-type of shenanigans that Lexi knew Bennett would pull. Even still she has to consciously stop herself from leaping at the chance for more time with the detective. She stammers as she scrambles for a reply, but before she can speak her phone conveniently buzzes.

“The ASAC just texted me,” Lexi reports, squinting at the fuzzy words. “I think I need to go.”

Bennett’s face falls like she was expecting Lexi to agree with her on the spot. “Yeah. Okay. We can talk about it later.”

“And maybe later we can talk about last night, too?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Bennett replies coolly, pursing her lips with a shrug. “If you want.”

For the second time in 24 hours, Lexi leaves Bennett on her own. 

“Howard, nice of you to join us,” the ASAC greets when Lexi meets him in the lobby.

“Sorry sir. I was catching up with my former liaison.”

“Listen,” McMurray says under his breath, leaning uncomfortably close. “These guys are leeches. They’ll try to suck the information out of you. So let’s keep everything in-house, okay? No leaks.”

“Yes sir.”

He gives her a tight smile. “That was a great job in there, by the way. You really had that perv on the ropes.”

Lexi says nothing, only nods in concession.

“You’re doing good,” he affirms as he pats her shoulder. “Keep this up and we’ll be heroes, just like Salinas.”

“Yes sir. Just like Salinas.”


	17. Postmortem

_Kelly Marianne Hyrick departed this life on August 12 at the young age of 24. She was preceded in death by her grandparents and is survived by her loving father, mother and brothers._

_At the time of her passing, Kelly was a promising law student at Barden University and dedicated much of her time to volunteering for local legal aid centers._

_Upcoming services will be held at Fisher & Sons Funeral Home. In lieu of flowers, Kelly’s family requests donations to a local legal center in memory of Kelly’s advocacy. _

It’s always a little strange to read her obituary after you ended her life.

Admittedly, this one’s a bit of an unfortunate case. Nate didn’t know of Kelly’s promising future when he saw her that cool August night. All he knew was that she fit the criteria to be one of his candidates: young, slim, rounded shoulders, with a “simple” look. She didn’t need to be perfect, after all. That’s what the Final Act is for, to achieve perfection. But in their daughter’s death, Kelly Hyrick’s parents likely felt the same disappointment as Nate’s father—the pain of lost potential. 

Nate runs his fingers over the laminated article carefully cataloged in his binder, thinking back to this specific Final Act. Thanks to his near-photographic memory he remembers the last breaths of each of his victims, as unique to him as thumbprints.

Unlike most of the victims, Kelly Hyrick hadn’t shed one tear before she died. It was like she understood why he had to do what he was doing. The lack of resistance on her part was quite a refreshing change of pace from most of the candidates who wept or tried to fight. Kelly Hyrick was one of the easy ones. He's come to appreciate that quality, especially after the one who almost got away. 

As the name echoes in his mind yet again, he resists the temptation to flip to a certain obituary by chewing on his nails. Inevitably, however, he always goes back. Giving up, he licks his thumb and flips a few pages ahead. A picture of a young woman with wide blue eyes, high cheekbones and wavy golden hair smiles up at him from the page.

_Mara Kellen Kemp, 27, passed away on October 3. She will be remembered by her loved ones as a kind and warm soul._

_A celebration of Kelly’s life will be held at Community Episcopal Church._

Of all his candidates, Mara Kemp is the only one he failed. The only smudge on his otherwise perfect record of Final Acts. 

He failed because he lost focus. His father had always told him to stay vigilant, to never give an opening. But that night, not for the first time, Nate failed to live up to his father’s words. Somewhere along the way he slipped up in preparing her, and just as he was readying himself with his hands around her neck she had gotten loose. All it took was one second and a kick to the crotch and he was on the floor and she was towering above him about to swing the lamp from her nightstand into his head.

He saw the sharp corners of the lamp’s base, envisioned it cracking his skull, and for the first time in many years he experienced a visceral emotion—he was afraid. If he didn’t act, he would fail in another critical moment and this time it would cost him everything.

Yet despite their current positions, Mara Kemp wasn’t much of a threat. Nate was bigger and stronger and he hadn’t been dosed with drugs, so it wasn’t hard to overpower her and seize the lamp from her. One hit to the head was all he needed to sedate her and he could continue with her Final Act. 

He was supposed to stop there. But he didn’t.

Again and again he drove the lamp into her with sickening cracks and thuds. He let go of his restraint and for just ten seconds he broke out of his programming. This was a different kind of release, achieved not in witnessing a perfect death but in allowing an imperfect one.

But when that moment had passed he stepped back, hands wobbling, and surveyed what he had just done. Until that moment he hadn’t known the extent to what he was capable of, but now he had reached it.

He feels some sense of regret now, though he’s not sure to what aspect of her death. Perhaps because he dishonored her by doing what he did. Perhaps because he allowed imperfection. Or perhaps because in the moment she almost killed him she made him feel something, and that scared him, and he acted out because of it. Because as shameful as it is to admit, those ten seconds without inhibition were bliss. However, ten seconds of bliss weren’t worth the price that his recklessness nearly extracted.

Once he regained control he set to work making sure this mistake wouldn’t be his downfall. He didn’t miss a single detail in covering his tracks, including paying a visit to his future fall guy, Mr. Tyler Clarkson. The fact that Tyler got “mugged” the same night certainly wouldn’t help his case when police discovered him to be the Strangler.

Nate’s father had taught him how to plan ahead, how to account for every vulnerability. So from the first kill Nate’s been setting Tyler up to take the fall. Now Tyler Clarkson’s life will never be the same, but that’s the price that must be paid. Perhaps if Tyler knew of the Final Act, if he saw its beauty and understood its importance, then he would accept his fate willingly, even happily.

Instead, because of those two scrappy, annoying girls on Nate’s tail, Tyler will have to suffer. 

Yes, Nate knows all about the tragicomic duo. After all, Detective Bennett’s not the only one who likes to do their research. 

Detective Rue Bennett is everything he resents in a woman—crass, impetuous, masculine, and domineering, with a host of repulsive vices. Once the LAPD’s finest, now she’s desperate to stay afloat in one thing and failing at everything. Just ask her psychiatrist. Or her ex. 

And who could forget Special Agent Lexi Howard? A lot of people, considering she’s the most successful nobody in the FBI. But these days she’s just as broken as Bennett on the inside (not that she can be blamed after what happened to her. In fact he almost feels sorry for the agent). She’s a house of cards waiting to collapse.

They’re an impressive couple of investigators on paper, sure, but he assumed they’d be shells of themselves at this point. They couldn’t pose much of a real threat. 

As always, he should’ve listened more closely to his father. Nate underestimated the partners and it almost cost him, which is why he had to cash in Tyler to fix this whole mess. 

Now he knows Bennett and Howard can’t be underestimated. Nate won’t make the same mistake twice. 


	18. Cross Examination

**Monday, 9:45 AM.** **LAPD West District Precinct.**

Tyler Clarkson is the Sandman Strangler. He has to be, right? Just like Howard and Hernandez and Perez said: DNA doesn’t lie. All the material evidence points to him.

The problem is that, by all indications, Tyler Clarkson isn’t lying either.

Rue hits rewind on the DVD player and leans closer to the screen, watching for a tell. Even the best liars give themselves away eventually, but unless Tyler’s the best liar she’s ever seen (and she has seen many good liars), this mook is genuinely convinced of his innocence. Not that she had a lot of evidence to come to this conclusion—ever since the FBI hijacked the case, the initial interview is the only evidence on Tyler that she has access to.

“Morning, Bennett.” She turns to see Captain Ali strolling in with two cups of coffee, a reference to a little tradition of theirs where he used to bring her coffee and say ‘fresh from the breakroom’ every time. It’s the first time he’s done this since The Incident, and Rue chooses to believe it’s a good omen for her chances of being reinstated.

“Still meeting with Dr. Harmon this morning?” he asks as he hands her a cup. Rue sighs at the reminder but nods, plastering a sarcastic smile on her face.

Ali takes a sip, then turns to the TV and frowns. “You dragged that thing in here? It must weigh a hundred pounds.” It’s one of the old models with the added weight in the back, usually kept strapped down in the break room.

“Just reviewing before BB’s interview, since our friends from the FBI are visiting.”

Now it’s Ali’s turn to sigh, underscoring his exasperation at having to host the ASAC yet again. “Well if you excuse me, I’m going to go sharpen my trench knife.” He tosses his empty cup in the trash with Jordanesque precision and strolls out.

Admittedly, Rue’s enjoyed watching Ali get fired up over his rivalry with McMurray. It’s not often that the captain “takes off the gloves” as he calls it, but when he does, it’s damn entertaining. He and McMurray fought over the jurisdiction for BB’s interview over the weekend, evolving into Cold War-level tensions. Then just this morning, with hours before BB’s arrival, they finally reached an uneasy ceasefire: one interview with BB, to be held at the precinct, with both parties present for questioning. The armistice has set the stage for a perfect storm of awkwardness this afternoon between Ali v. McMurray, and Rue v. Howard.

At least if she and Howard were rivals like the captain and ASAC, she wouldn’t be so nervous about seeing the Senior Special Agent again. That way she’d know where they stand.

Rue has semi-successfully avoided thinking about Friday night, opting to work on the case and to (try to) put her workspace back together. But she didn’t think about Friday night for a good reason—she didn’t want to. She overthinks enough at it is, and there’s no point in marinating over how she screwed up the only good thing going for her. 

Not that there’s much to think about. Howard hates Rue now. After Friday night, Howard knows how selfish Rue is, how reckless she can be. Now she’s pulling away because she knows what Rue really is. That’s what usually happens. Anyone who gets close to Rue will end up resenting her eventually.

Another one bites the dust. Lesson learned. Besides, Rue works better on her own anyway.

* * *

 **Monday, 9:45 AM.** **Los Angeles International Airport.**

Lexi really should be at her field office right now instead of hiding out at the LAX Starbucks. For christ’s sake, she’s supposed to be making sure Tyler Clarkson stays behind bars. But she hasn’t been able to focus all weekend. Things are too messy right now in her work and in... other areas. And Lexi can’t think straight when things are messy. There’s no use looking for order when there’s nothing to be found except chaos.

It doesn’t help that she hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a while. Most of the time she wakes up more exhausted than when she went to bed. There’s no relief in her waking hours either since she’s knee-deep in the sordid details of the Strangler’s brutal crimes. As hard as she tries not to take her work home with her, it’s harder than ever for her to compartmentalize. She blames Bennett, despite knowing full-well the irrationality of that viewpoint.

Now obviously Bennett isn’t the source of her problems. But Lexi’s... _tempestuous_ relationship with the detective is just amplifying the messiness and Lexi’s subsequent stress. In the last few days Bennett has escalated to an existential threat by threatening to break down Lexi’s walls. So Lexi needs time—time to mend the walls, to pack certain things away in a dark corner where she doesn’t have to confront them. Because avoidance is comfortable. Avoidance is safe. She needs “comfortable” and “safe.”

In the interest of achieving ever-elusive comfort and safety, Lexi has avoided contact with Bennett since Saturday. By now Bennett probably assumes that Lexi hates her, which will only make their reunion at the precinct later today even more awkward. But what’s Lexi supposed to say? “Hey, I can’t talk to you because you terrify me, but also I may have a strong romantic interest in you”?

Despite refraining from contact, Lexi hasn’t stopped thinking about Friday night. Her mind’s swirling with questions—most urgently, how did they end up so close by the end of the night? Lost in thought, she stares down at the cup of coffee in front of her. After some time a tap on her shoulder averts her attention to McKay, who stands beside the table with luggage in hand.

“I was gonna sneak up behind you and scare you but then I realized that was a terrible idea.”

“Thank god you didn’t,” she agrees as she clutches her chest. “That wouldn’t have gone well.”

McKay sits down across from her and sets a bottle of water and a newspaper down on the table. “I was surprised you remembered that you said we should meet up again.”

“I’m sorry about Friday,” she sighs as she buries her face in her hands. “I promise I never get like that. Ever.”

McKay waves her off. “We were on the same level. I guess we were both nervous. I dunno, at least I was.”

“Why would you be nervous?”

“Because I wanted to talk about some stuff.”

* * *

In fulfilling the counseling required for her reinstatement, Rue has become very familiar with the department psychologist’s office. Everything about the room—the white noise machine, the aquarium, the basket of stress balls and box of tissues strategically placed on the coffee table in front of her—is designed to make her feel comfortable. But the white noise is annoying, the aquarium distracting and the toys and tissues presumptuous. She still hates it in here, even if she’s trying to take today’s session seriously for a change.

Dr. Harmon sits in an easy chair across from her, primed and ready for some extensive notetaking with his legs crossed and notepad on his lap. He’s probably secretly writing a journal article on her: ‘Characterizing Human Failure: A Case Study.’ That’s the main reason Rue doesn’t like these sessions. She doesn’t like being analyzed like a specimen.

“I’m glad you came to visit, Rue. Where should we start today?”

She returns his prompt with silence at first, rejecting the sound of her first name. No matter how many times she reminds Dr. Harmon to call her Bennett, the man never remembers. “There’s been a lot going on,” she finally admits as she pushes her hands underneath her thighs.

“Captain Ali mentioned you’ve been working on the Sandman Strangler case. That’s an exciting assignment.”

She shakes her head slightly. As much as she usually prefers talking about work to talking about her private life, she needs to stay on task. There’s one question she can’t answer herself, and it’s driving her crazy.

“I have something else I want to talk about.”

Harmon blinks quickly and smiles, pleasantly surprised. Rue’s never taken their sessions seriously beyond saying what she felt like he wanted to hear, so her setting a topic of conversation is a big step in and of itself.

“There’s someone I know,” Rue continues cautiously, “and I don’t know where we stand.” She pauses for a beat, fighting the voice in her head telling her to stop talking about actual problems. “She’s a good partner. I work better with her.” (At least she can finally admit that). “But we’re in a… a weird place right now. With the investigation. And some other stuff. And... y’know. I just want to figure out where we’re at.”

He nods slowly as he absorbs the information. “And how can I help?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” she shrugs and tosses her hands up. “Counsel me. Therapize me.”

He puts a fist over his mouth and clears his throat, a guttural noise that nearly sets Rue on edge. She’s already on pins and needles just talking about this subject out loud.

“So you’ve been working with this person for some time. Now your partnership in the case just ended,” he summarizes. “You want to clarify in what capacity you’ll be working with them?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Okay, then what exactly is the nature of your relationship?”

Rue grimaces in discomfort at his words. Harmon has the vocabulary of a therapist and all the ‘relationship’ talk is too gushy for Rue. “Uh, what do you mean by relationship?”

“To clarify if you would consider her more than a work partner. Have you taken a personal interest in her? Spent time outside of work, tried to develop a friendship?”

She clears her throat and looks up to the ceiling. “Well, we... uh... She did spend the night at my place one time. Because she was drunk and upset and I was worried about her. But that was platonic. I assume it was.”

Harmon peers at her over his glasses, then furiously scribbles a paragraph of notes before summoning a reply. Meanwhile Rue resorts to counting ceiling tiles to cope with the regret of having just shared too much. 

“You, platonically, spent the night with your former liaison?” he finally clarifies, eyeing her skeptically.

“What I’m telling you is confidential, right? You’re not gonna blab to Ali about this?”

“Of course not.” For the first time since she started seeing him, he appears to be at a loss of what to say. Finally he seems to regain his footing and readies his pen and notepad. “Okay. Let’s talk about Jules.”

“What does Jules have to do with me and Howard?”

“We’ll get there in a moment,” he assures her. “How did you feel right after Jules left?”

Rue tries to think back to those dark months. “Pissed off, most of the time.” Her memories from that time are warped by drunkenness, so it’s difficult to recall much else.

“You were angry at her for leaving?”

“Duh. But I still don’t know what this has to do with me and Howard.”

“Indulge me for a second,” he pushes. “Why were you angry?”

The question strikes her as borderline insulting and she has to consciously refrain from handing him a biting retort. “Why shouldn’t I have been angry? She told me she would never do that, and then she did it. She lied. When someone lies it pisses me off.”

He jots a quick note and looks back up at her. “How does that experience affect how you are with Howard?”

At first the comparison strikes her as so absurd that she laughs. But when she sees his serious expression, her amusement is replaced with confusion. “That has nothing to do with... Wait, what?”

“Generally speaking, this is the first time you’ve felt ‘close’ to someone since Jules, correct?”

She can see what Harmon’s getting at and she doesn’t like it. Without thinking, she leans forward and picks up a stress ball from a basket on the coffee table. “I mean, do I care about Howard? Sure. But Jules is _Jules_. I can’t compare someone I’ve been working with for two months to someone I spent half my life with.”

“Good point, those are two very different histories.” He rubs his mustache in contemplation. “Tell me, has Howard given you any reason not to trust her?”

 _Never. But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen_.

When she doesn’t reply immediately, he moves to explain himself. “I know that putting yourself back out there is hard. Especially after what you’ve experienced. Part of recovery is learning how to form new connections in a healthy way.”

“What’s the point of getting deep? She hates me at this point.”

“Do you know that for certain?” he pushes back.

“Well, no. But I assume she’s already done with me.”

“When you expect them to leave you’re already pushing them out the door. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“But it’s easier that way.”

“No,” he corrects, “it’s comfortable that way. Easier isn’t always better.”

She hates when Harmon’s right.

“First,” he says with a gleam in his eye, “you climb out of the Pits.”

Now he’s just fucking with her. “What the hell is the Pits?” she growls, failing to hide the annoyance in her voice.

“I’m glad you asked.” Harmon smiles and leans back in his seat, ready to dose out Midwestern wisdom. “That’s a little nickname I have for the place where people go after their partner leaves them. It’s the hardest part of the end of a relationship: you have to overcome the guilt, the fear, the rejection to escape. But to get yourself out of the Pits, you have to put yourself out of the Pits to begin with and show some vulnerability. That’s the risk.”

“I don’t need to take risks,” Rue counters. “I just want to know where I stand with her.”

“And you don’t think substantiating that relationship involves some sort of risk on your part?”

She opens her mouth to reply but nothing comes out. He’s got a point there.

“How do I start?” she concedes again.

“Allow vulnerability. That’s how you rebuild your sense of trust. And I have to say,” he continues, “it’s very encouraging that you’re seeking new connections.”

“I don’t know if it’s that deep. I think she’s a good person. I do care about her.” Something about his use of the word _connection_ makes Rue queasy. It’s too… personal for her liking, implying a certain vulnerability that lies outside her realm of control.

“You know, Rue,” he starts off as he adjusts his glasses, “there’s no shame in being hurt. It’s not a sign of weakness. It’s what you do next that matters. Do you carry that hurt around with you until the end of days and let it fester and drive everyone off, or do you address it and start to heal? What I’m trying to say is, does this person mean something significant to you?”

That’s the million dollar question. Admitting Howard’s significance aloud only affirms the inconvenience of that reality, though Rue’s still not sure what she means by _significance._

“Yes.” Rue has to spit the words out before she rethinks admitting it.

“Worth the risk of getting hurt?”

“I think so.”

“Then you’ve found your answer.”

* * *

“Because I wanted to talk about some stuff.”

Those words send a whole new surge of anxiety through Lexi. “That sounds really foreboding, Chris,” she remarks, trying not to sound terrified.

McKay leans forward on his elbows, his eye contact unbroken. “I was gonna bring this up on Friday but... I don’t know, I’m no good at this stuff.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no!” he tries to assure her. “It’s a good thing. Just something I felt like I needed to tell you.”

Still not completely convinced, she shifts in her seat to soothe her nerves. McKay still appears uncertain, looking around to anywhere but Lexi. “So there’s someone I’ve been seeing for a few months now.”

“Oh.” That’s all she can come up with at the moment.

“It’s kind of funny how we met.” He cracks a smile and begins to ramble. “She’s a lifestyle journalist and she came to do a review of my bar. But then after it was published she kept coming back for ‘follow up interviews’...”

She can hear him still talking, but that annoying ringing in her ears is back and it’s drowning out all of the noise around her. She looks back down at her coffee, stares at the little foam bubbles ringed around the cup, squeezes her hands together until her knuckles turn white. Eventually the fog passes and she’s able to focus again, though her hands still tremble slightly. Fortunately he hasn’t noticed her waning attention and keeps droning on with a smile on his face (which is admittedly sweet).

“... and yeah, that’s basically it. It’s like we were made for each other.”

It takes another gulp of breath for her to force a smile. “I’m really happy for you, Chris.”

“And, uh...” He grabs with the water bottle and starts to bobble it in his hands, pursing his lips hesitantly. “I was thinking about proposing to her.”

Perhaps she should’ve expected this news. It doesn’t mean she’s not completely blindsided by it.

_Why are you telling me this?_

But of course, she doesn’t say that. “If there’s anyone who deserves to be happy, it’s you.” She keeps a tight smile and hopes it looks sincere.

“You do too,” he states so simply that it almost sounds like he means it.

Rather than reply she pauses, which just spirals into a long, uneasy silence. As she stares back down at her coffee, she can’t help but wonder if his news was the only reason he wanted to see her in the first place. Is he wanting to make her feel bad by telling her this? Or trying to prove something to her?

“Hey wait, is that you?” McKay points to something just over Lexi’s shoulder. Following his gaze, she turns around to the TV mounted in the corner, where her face is shown right next to the ASAC in a photo of Tyler being led away in handcuffs. The blood drains from her face at the sight.

“Holy shit, the Sandman Strangler? You didn’t tell me that’s what you’re working on!” He sounds like a little kid, the way his voice rises in excitement.

“It’s a team effort.” That’s all she can manage to say.

“What’s the Strangler like?” McKay pushes. “Is he weird? This guy’s like, famous in Oregon too. Is it anything like when you busted the Serrano Cartel?”

She twitches at the sound of that name. How flippantly he invokes it—she didn’t truly understand the depths of human depravity until she started investigating the Serrano Cartel. Until she saw the victims at that motel in Salinas.

“No. it’s not like that at all.” Her tone is flat, almost robotic.

Finally taking notice of her off-kilter demeanor, he looks carefully at her in a way that makes her straighten her spine.

“I wanted to see you while I was down here because I know you have a lot on your plate right now.”

The atmosphere is shifting serious, which Lexi had hoped to once again avoid. Time for an exit strategy. 

“Well I’m in pretty high demand these days.”

“No, that’s not what I’m getting at,” he replies sternly, leaning forward and squaring his shoulders to her. “I wanted to do like a... a wellness check. To see how you’re doing with everything.”

“A wellness check?” She scoffs and waits for him to break but he maintains a stern expression. Trying to keep her breathing level, she turns back at the TV to make sure her face is off the screen. Then she turns back around and absentmindedly stirs her coffee. “I’d say I’m managing.”

“Just managing?”

 _Managing_ is the right word. She’s not thriving but she’s hanging in there. “Yeah, just managing.”

“Well, I feel like there’s more to it than you’re letting on. I could be off-base.”

Oddly, her first instinct is frustration. What exactly does McKay think he can do for her? Why bring this up in the first place? He’s about to get on an airplane and go back to his regular, well-adjusted life. Her answer doesn’t affect him.

After a brief lapse she tempers herself with a reminder that she has no right to be angry with him. McKay needs a reply and she’ll give him one.

Though she’s managing, she’s uncertain whether she would be lying if she said she was _okay_. This case is taking a toll, she hasn’t been sleeping well—oh, and also her ‘partner’ is making her question everything, including her own damn sexuality, at a time when she should be completely focused on her job.

But obviously she can’t say any of this to him. It’s Monday morning, and you don’t want to dredge this kind of stuff up so early when you have the rest of the week ahead of you.

“Lex?”

It’s not until she’s snapped out of it by the sound of McKay’s voice that Lexi realizes she’s been sitting in silence for about a full minute. Bad idea to think about Bennett and Salinas, the two subjects she promised that she wouldn’t think about while she’s with McKay.

“Nothing much,” she replies almost automatically.

“What?” He looks baffled for a moment then shakes his head. “No, I said I felt there’s more up with you than you’re letting on.”

McKay’s onto her. Time to give up and come clean. Sort of. Without saying too much. “Do you remember after everything went down and I kind of… mentally checked out for a few months?”

He nods, his expression still intent.

“That’s how I am when things get crazy,” she explains. “It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong. It’s just how I handle things and it works for me.”

Usually McKay accept this half-truth, but at this point he’s not having it—Lexi’s used this excuse one too many times. “But you’re not just ‘checked out’,” he pushes back. “I was around two years ago. I saw how you dealt with that shit. I know how you are when you’re in the thick of it. And if I’m being straight up, it looks a lot like how you are now.”

Already on edge, his directness makes Lexi feel even more like she’s been cornered. “You would be like that too, if you’d been in my position,” she quickly counters.

“Fair enough. But have you thought about, like, getting some help just... I don’t know, to process some of that stuff?” His voice rises a tad, enough to make her face hot and her heart beat faster.

“Why spend my time looking in a rear view mirror?”

“I know it’s hard to look back—.”

“That’s why you don’t look back!” She almost shouts above his voice, momentarily forgetting their public setting before tempering herself again. A few patrons turn and look at them, and Lexi’s eyes dart around just to make sure they’re safe.

The silence thickens between them again, neither certain of what to say next. Inevitably, the guilt-riddled one yields first.

“I know you’re just trying to help, but now is really not a good time,” Lexi tries to explain.

The look on McKay’s face wrenches her. He’s not angry or annoyed. It’s almost like he pities her, which only frustrates and shames her further. As neither is sure how to defuse the tension, the seconds pass like hours. They’ve never been good at addressing the elephant in the room.

“Look, you’re gonna find your way out,” he says eventually, though he doesn’t meet her eyes. “Nothing bad lasts forever.”

“Nothing good lasts forever, either.”

* * *

Rue has made the relentless pursuit of answers her life’s mission. Sometimes, however, those answers are hard to swallow. This is one such case.

Back in the conference room, she stews over the Howard Problem. Here’s what she can’t deny at this point: she cares about Howard in a way that transcends their work partnership. She has allowed herself to start caring about Howard despite knowing the professional and personal risks of their getting close. And she has horribly underestimated her own level of interest in the agent. Interest that could come back to hurt her.

Howard is a stranger, yes. But instead of being scared off by this concept, Rue is drawn closer. She doesn’t just want to know Howard; she cares about her answers.

But getting closer means letting Howard in too. And if she lets Howard in, Howard will either hate Rue (even more) or hurt Rue.

Despite the noisy doubts, she’s reminded of something Howard once said: “when you hope for something better, you’re opening yourself up to the disappointment that it won’t be.”

_Fine, Howard. You win._

Howard is something better. If Rue’s going to take a risk, Howard is a worthy risk to take. She’s a genuinely good person. She she makes Rue better too. Not only as a detective, but as a person. Rue doesn’t mind getting up in the morning if she knows she’s going to see Howard.

That doesn’t mean everything’s fine and dandy. She has to proceed with caution, because if she’s not careful she’ll ruin a good thing. There’s clearly more going on with Howard than Rue is equipped to handle. And the last thing Howard needs is a deadweight to add to her problems. Her impulse is to keep her distance to protect the agent. But now she’s seeing things differently. Rue’s not enough. She knows that. But maybe she can still help. Or at least try.

* * *

There’s a thick pile of paperwork on Lexi’s in-box when she gets back to the field office, a sight that makes the middle of her forehead start to ache. She plops down at her desk and pulls a couple of ibuprofen from her drawer, pops the pills and rubs her eyes.

It’s Monday morning and she’s very tired. She’s tired because McKay just had to go and dredge up the past, which Lexi needs no reminders of. Now she feels like shit and he’s going home disgusted with her. After everything she’s already put him through.

In her defenseless state, her mind drifts back to Bennett. Perhaps if she were here she could shoulder some of this weight.

It defies all logic, but despite her inherently frenetic nature, Bennett is a safe place. On Friday night Bennett knew Lexi was in a dark place. She didn’t try to pull Lexi out of it; she sat right there with her. And that’s exactly what Lexi needed in the moment—not platitudes, just comfort.

Even as Bennett constantly challenges her avoidance by trying to break down those walls, she somehow gives Lexi the comfort and safety she needs. Bennett makes her feel like maybe, just maybe, she’s too hard on herself.

As always, Lexi feels conflicted—split down the middle between equal impulses to let Bennett in, or push her away. She’s being pulled into Bennett’s orbit, and the harder she tries to fight it, the stronger Bennett’s gravity becomes. Yet she knows that when Bennett genuinely needs her, Lexi will drop everything in a heartbeat to be there. That’s partly because she has a definite weakness for the detective, but also because that’s just who Lexi is. She used to view that was a shortcoming, but now she’s starting to think that’s not such a bad thing.

She checks her phone, then looks at the pile of casework. If it weren’t explicitly forbidden to work with the PD, Bennett could help with Tyler. Her skills are undoubtedly great, and she’d be able to provide some insight that Lexi’s definitely missing. And for some inexplicable, misguided reason, Lexi trusts the detective. They make a good team.

Maybe it’s time to break protocol.


	19. Stuck in the Middle with You

Just this morning Rue was agonizing over her status with Howard. Now she’s about to get some answers, but she’s not sure if she’s ready to hear them.

_Senior Special Agent Howard: Meet me in the back alley_

Her stomach stirs with nervousness as she tries to decipher the text’s underlying message. Why the secrecy? Is Howard suddenly embarrassed to be seen with her? Or is she trying to do a spy/noir bit? Usually Rue’s the one doing a bit, but Howard has also shown a flair for the dramatic.

When Rue steps into the alley the agent is waiting for her with arms crossed and shoulders tensed. If it were anyone else Rue would take their body language as aggressive. But it’s Howard, so obviously the intent is different. Still, this feels weird and kind of creepy. Time to deploy sarcasm.

“You sure we shouldn’t have met in a parking garage? Wearing trench coats?”

Howard eases her shoulders somewhat and steps forward to meet Rue, the dark circles under her eyes coming into full view. “The ASAC banned working with PD, so he can’t see us talking,” the smaller woman whispers despite their total privacy. After looking over her shoulder one more time, she pulls three manila folders from her bag and extends them to Rue. “Everything the FBI has on Tyler Clarkson so far.”

“Holy mother of...” Rue barely chokes out in reaction. Up until a few minutes ago she was completely in the dark about Tyler, and now a wealth of information is literally being handed over to her. It’s nearly too good to be true. Again, if it were anyone but Howard, Rue would know this was a trap.

“You could get in a fuck ton of trouble for this.”

“Well you didn’t get it from me.”

Rue nods and takes the folders from her, thumbing through the dense pages. Everything’s neatly catalogued and organized with numbered tabs, even an index at the front. Pretty much the most Howardy thing that Rue has ever seen.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I owed you one after Friday night.” Howard looks Rue up and down, a glow in her eyes as her jaw shifts. “Besides, we work better together. Like you said.”

“Um,” Rue falters in response, heart pounding like she’s been knocked back on her heels. “Cool. That’s... cool.”

The glow in Howard’s eyes dulls. It’s a fair reaction—Rue’s reply was so completely lame and inadequate that it still echoes in her ears. Howard’s laying it on the line here. Rue could say more. Should say more.

“Let’s talk after BB’s interview,” she offers to try and salvage the agent’s goodwill.

“We need to be really quiet with this.” Howard’s expression is intense, her eyebrows knit together in earnest concern. “I don’t want to get in trouble. And I really don’t want you to, either.”

“Then I’ll call you so we don’t have to meet in-person.”

Rue swears she sees Howard flicker a smile for just a second before she looks over her shoulder again. “That sounds like a good plan,” the agent says with a solemn nod. Both of them stand there like idiots, neither willing to make the next move. “I gotta go now,” Howard adds. “Wait a few minutes before you follow me.”

“Okay, well...” Unsure of what else to do, Rue sticks her hand out for a handshake. Howard looks down at Rue’s hand, confused, and they shake for just long enough to make the moment even more uncomfortable than originally thought possible. Then Howard moves away, walks into the door, steps back, opens it and slips inside.

Rue glances down at her watch then pulls out a cigarette, hoping the familiar routine will settle her nerves before the interview. With Howard gone the alley takes back its typical forsaken atmosphere, and Rue finds herself wishing the agent had stayed to share a cigarette with her. It’s a dangerous sentiment but one she won’t ignore or deny anymore.

Mostly, though, Rue’s just happy she hasn’t ruined a good thing yet. Somehow Howard still doesn’t hate her. Not that it won’t eventually happen, but for now Rue can revel in the confidence boost that Howard still wants to work with her.

Sadly, her insecurity quickly erases her confidence boost. Rue has come to accept that Howard will act awkward in any given situation, but it’s clear to her when something is off, really off, with her partner. Ever since Friday the agent hasn’t acted like herself. Granted, Rue’s only seen her a couple of times, but she’s starting to wonder if the case is getting to the agent. Howard went from lecturing Rue about finding the good in everything, to opining about how horrible things happen for no reason. It’s as if when the spotlight on Howard gets brighter, she grows darker.

Lost in thought, it takes Rue several minutes to realize she hasn’t even lit the cigarette, which still rests cold between her lips.

* * *

“You look chipper this morning,” McMurray mutters when Lexi meets him in the lobby. She tries to wipe the grin from her face but still feels that pulse of excitement beating deep down. How can she not smile right now? She and Bennett are (secret) partners again. Lexi’s reckless gamble paid off.

“Just looking forward to talking to this witness,” she tries to cover. Unlike Bennett, the ASAC doesn’t care enough about her answer to ask any more questions.

The duo navigate the precinct’s winding halls to the fourth floor interview room. It’s a cozier environment than the interrogation room in the basement: the lighting isn’t as harsh, the table’s made of wood instead of steel, and the chairs have cushion on them. But even the comfortable trappings can’t conceal the antipathy waiting inside when they enter. Captain Ali is already inside, leaned back and arms crossed and ready to pounce.

“Captain.” McMurray’s voice is flat, his grimace tight in distaste.

“ASAC.”

The opening creak of the door causes everyone to turn to Bennett, who stands in the doorway. “Did I interrupt?”

“No,” the captain lies as he looks back at the ASAC again. “Right on time. The desk sergeant said the witness should be arriving about now.”

There are four chairs set up on one side of the table and two chairs on the opposite side for BB and her lawyer. Ali and McMurray pointedly take their seats at opposite ends of the row, leaving little room for the two open seats in the middle. It’ll be a tight squeeze for her and Bennett. The setup feels like some bad practical joke: pushing her and the detective into even closer proximity than when they shared a bed. On top of that, she has to try and pay attention while she’s so close to Bennett that they’re practically swapping body heat (though Lexi doesn’t mind that particular aspect). Still, these conditions will make it challenging for her to stay focused. 

The door creaks open again, the sweet fragrance of vanilla-scented vapor signaling BB’s arrival. “This isn’t gonna take long right?” She sighs as she strolls in, lawyer and stenographer trailing behind. Fortunately she appears oblivious to the roiling tension in the room.

“I don’t even know what happened,” BB disclaims as she takes her seat, like she’s already anticipating the questions. “I thought she was getting dicked down, not killed. And just so you know I’d gotten really wasted earlier so I was still kind of coming down from that. I don’t even really know what I saw.”

The captain raises his palm to slow her down. “We just want to go over the details one more time. If there are any questions you’re not comfortable answering, we’ll move on.”

Despite her bravado BB looks uncomfortable too. Lexi understands that this is an intimidating situation. But even still, why is BB suddenly reticent to discuss the death? She had no problem mouthing off in the victim’s own den while the body was still warm a few rooms away.

Bennett shifts in her seat, a tiny movement that only Lexi feels since they’re so close together. She wonders if the seating arrangement was specially designed to torture her. Maybe McMurray knows she just leaked and is screwing with her before he fires her.

“I’d like to start,” the ASAC cuts the captain off. They shoot each other looks that make Lexi and Bennett both lean back in their seats the escape the line of sight. As if this weren’t uncomfortable enough. “Ms. Burke,” he continues, “in your initial statement you were unclear as to what time you saw the Strangler leaving the victim’s home.”

“Yeah no, I think I remember now. It was around 10 o’clock.”

“And you would estimate he was approximately 30 feet away at the time you saw him?” the ASAC follows up before the captain can squeeze in a question.

For just a fraction of a second BB’s face goes blank, like she wasn’t equipped to answer, but then she recovers her façade. “Yeah, 30 feet. Sounds about right.”

Bennett isn’t buying it. Lexi knows from the way the detective fidgets that she’s suspicious of the witness’s sudden clarity.

“Can you describe the man you saw leaving the house?”

“About her height,” BB points at Bennett. “He was wearing a black hat so I thought at first that he had black hair. But his hair was light brown or dirty blonde. Shoulder length.”

Bennett’s arm twitches again.

“Thank you Ms. Burke, that’s very helpful.”

In the five seconds of silence that it takes for everyone to write down their notes Lexi can feel Bennett’s body coil, ready to strike. If it were just the two of them Lexi could probably hold her back, but in the ASAC’s presence she has to refrain from anything that would give away the actual nature of their partnership.

“Okay, I’m gonna ask since no one else will.” Bennett stops squirming and leans forward. “Why did your description of him completely change between then and now?”

BB’s eyes dart between the four investigators and she straightens her posture. Even her lawyer, who’s been half asleep for the whole conversation, is looking at her now in anticipation of an answer.

“I mean, it was dark when I saw him. It was really late at night. Honestly I didn’t even see him that well.”

“Well which is it? It was dark, it was late or you couldn’t see him?”

Lexi nudges Bennett with her elbow, trying to check the detective’s aggression, but Bennett nudges right back. “I just don’t understand, Ms. Burke, how your description did a complete 180 turn.”

“What’s your problem?” BB snaps, dropping any semblance of decorum in front of the LEOs.

“Stand down, Detective,” the captain murmurs under his breath. For a second Lexi thinks Bennett’s going to step too far and defy him, but then Bennett leans back with a huff, her shoulder lower and pinned against Lexi’s upper arm.

That’s the last time Bennett talks for the rest of the interview, and the last time Lexi pays attention to the witness. Her focus is on the disgruntled detective, whose frustration radiates off of her with every twitch and shift of her body. A few times Lexi can feel her partner growing especially agitated—her shoulders will rise or she’ll start bouncing her leg, and Lexi has to reach over and rest her hand on Bennett’s knee to calm the detective.

Lexi feels a weird mix of concern and admiration for the outburst. Bennett may be reckless, but at least she has guts. She was the only one to call out bullshit despite the inconvenience. If only Lexi had backed her up and hadn’t taken the coward’s route. Not that Lexi’s support would have done any good.

An hour and a half of unproductive discussion later, the interview finally wraps and a pair of desk sergeants retrieve BB to go sign some forms. The ASAC stands up, and Lexi rises to meet him. She has mixed feelings about leaving her precariously close position with Bennett.

“You know, that was a bad look back there,” the ASAC growls. He looks at Bennett, then back at the captain. “Get a grip on your team, Ali.”

Lexi immediately swivels to Bennett as visions of the detective swinging a punch flash through her head. Bennett’s hands curl into fists and she narrows her eyes at the ASAC, like she’s telling him _“stand down, little man.”_ Then, in a surprising moment of restraint, Bennett turns on her heels and heads for the door. It takes everything Lexi has not to chase her, though it kills her inside to let Bennett down by not having her back.

She also laments not being able to follow Bennett out because now she can’t escape what’s coming next. The captain and ASAC stare each other down, their Cold War threatening to go nuclear, and the room roils again. Then Ali leans close to the ASAC, his voice a murmur that Lexi barely hears. “Make no mistake, McMurray. Talk to my detective like that again and you will regret it.”

The ASAC pulls his mouth into a sideways smirk. He’s silent for a few painful seconds, trying to figure out what to say, but after coming up blank he heads for the exit. “We’re done here anyway,” he scoffs, getting his parting shot off before the captain can reply. As she tails her boss Lexi shoots a quick message to the detective: _Are you ok? call you tonight._

“That mother _fucker_! Where does he get off, talking to me like that?” Lexi has to lean away from her phone as Bennett shouts at the other end of the line. For the sake of her own eardrums she puts her phone on speaker, tossing it next to her as she stretches out on her bed.

They’ve been on the phone for two hours now. About 20 minutes of that time has been spent discussing the case, which was the whole reason for tonight’s talk, but conversations with Bennett are a rabbit hole. One moment they’re reviewing the interview, the next Bennett’s recounting some wacky story from her career, the next Bennett’s ranting about McMurray. In terms of productivity this call has been a complete waste of time, which is fine with Lexi. Bennett could talk about nothing at all and Lexi would spend all day listening. When she loses herself in her stream of consciousness, Bennett has a way of letting herself talk without agonizing over her words.

She speaks with such ease that Lexi can almost picture Bennett sitting in front of her right now. For some people, their eyes are windows to the soul. For Bennett it’s her voice. It rises when she jokes, quivers when she’s angry, softens when she feels less confidence about what she’s saying.

“Howard? You there?” Bennett’s voice crackles again.

“Yeah, sorry. I was… having trouble with the connection.”

“Did you hear what I said? About your boss and that he’s an asshole?”

“Don’t spend your energy on the ASAC. He’s like that all the time,” Lexi advises as she rests her phone on her chest. She hears the squeak of box springs on the other end of the line, probably the sound of the detective just flopping down on her own bed. This isn’t weird, right? This is what friends do—they talk on the phone about normal things. And Lexi and Bennett are friends. In a very fluid, one-sidedly non-platonic way. “Let’s just worry about the case. Focus on that,” Lexi tells Bennett and herself.

Bennett easily slips back into investigator mode. “Did you notice BB already had an explanation for why her descriptions didn’t match up? Like she came prepared.”

Of course she would go here first. The detective has been on BB’s case from the beginning, casting doubt on her official statement and questioning every response.

“She and her lawyer probably prepped first,” Lexi suggests, though it’s unclear why a witness would clear their story with a lawyer if they haven’t committed a crime.

“No way, that guy was useless,” Bennett scoffs. “Did you see his face? The whole time we were in there he looked like he was trying not to fart.” The remark catches Lexi off-guard and draws a laugh out of her. That’s one of Bennett’s special talents: she can switch off from discussing the complexities of a case, to cracking a fart joke without missing a beat.

Unfortunately, Lexi’s going to have to be a wet blanket again. “Listen,” she begins as she braces herself for Bennett’s reaction. “We traced the prescription for the pills under Sara Villarreal’s sink. They came from Tyler—he was her supplier.”

The other end of the line is quiet for a few seconds while Bennett processes the news. “Did you ask him about it? What did he say?”

“Pled the fifth.”

A direct connection between Tyler and one of the victims, along with the DNA evidence, should be enough to convince almost any jury of the suspect’s guilt. But for Bennett, the news doesn’t land like a guilty verdict.

“Why would he kill one of his own buyers?”

It’s a good question, and one which gives Lexi pause. “Maybe she pissed him off? Or he just wanted to? I don’t know.”

“See? Everyone acts like it’s weird that I’m asking the hard questions,” Bennett pushes back. “But why am I the only one asking them?”

Lexi can understand why the FBI is moving so fast on Tyler Clarkson: with a suspect identified in such a conclusive way, and after months without progress, her superiors are her eager to announce the findings as a major victory. She also understands Bennett’s frustration. Her valid questions about the handling of the investigation aren’t being answered. And then there’s Lexi, at the will of these two opposing forces.

“I think you’re right to be frustrated. You’re not being listened to,” Lexi offers. They’re just words, nothing that can help her partner. Hopefully they can at least validate her feelings.

Bennett’s quiet again, so for a moment Lexi naturally assumes she said the wrong thing and messed up.

“Thanks for letting me vent,” Bennett finally replies. The detective’s voice is soft but certain, striking a far different tone from her harsh ramblers a minute ago. Almost as if Lexi’s words helped after all.

“Any time.”

“I’m glad we’re working together again,” Bennett says hurriedly before slowing herself. “I like working with you.”

It’s a good thing this isn’t an in-person conversation, because Lexi turns beet red at Bennett’s words. There’s a weird prickly feeling in the back of her head and her throat is suddenly very itchy. Bennett’s waiting on her reply and here’s Lexi, panicking and dithering, caught off-guard.

Rather than think too hard, she tries Bennett’s new strategy of just letting herself speak. “I like working with you too. We make a good team.”

“I agree.”

 _Real hot and heavy, Lex._ Both ends of the line are silent and Lexi has no idea what to say next. The detective is always so deliberately evasive on deeper subjects, always leaving room for interpretation, that her directness is even more distressing than her usual ambiguity.

“So,” Bennett resets as she clears her throat, “I’m working on some notes from those packets you gave me. I’ll send them to you soon, hopefully they’ll help you.”

The change of subject comes as a relief that Lexi welcomes. “Thanks for that.”

“No problem, I’m here for ya.”

Lexi’s warm again. At least her day is ending better than it started.

* * *

Rue and Howard end up talking for another hour and a half, and by the end of their conversation it’s like there was never any rift. Howard didn’t pull away and she doesn’t hate her after all. Quite the opposite—the agent wants to stay partners. She wants to stay partners to the point that she’s putting her job on the line so they can keep working together.

Rue never should have doubted the agent’s fidelity. All she had to do was put herself out there to confirm it. It turns out honesty is fucking terrifying. In a good way, that is. Like skydiving.

Trust has never come easy for Rue, but at least it’s easier to practice with Howard. They fall into rhythm so easily and naturally. It’s like they’ve known each other for so much longer than the few weeks they’ve worked together. She had the same feeling when she saw Jules—like they had known each other their whole lives even though they were just meeting.

It’s strange to think that they even live in the same universe when they’re so different. Jules was a rush of ecstasy. Howard is home.

And then there’s Rue. The bull in the china shop that threatens to wreck them both.

She halts the thought as it occurs, reconsidering the idea. Does she actually believe this, or is the ASAC’s earlier insult still affecting her? Though she would never show it, his words cut deep. But maybe she’s not all that bad. After all, Howard was obviously having a pretty bad day until she and Rue reunited. At least she could bring Howard some relief.

Still keyed up by the ASAC’s insult, Rue knows she won’t be able to focus on work anytime soon. She grabs her jacket and sneaks outside. She loves walking at night. It’s a meditative habit, and it’s when she gets her best thinking done.

She sticks her hand in her pockets and strolls down the sidewalk. Her street is always dead at this time. She doesn’t live near anything important, which means there’s less traffic and inherently less people. Just as she’d prefer it.

Just as she’s loosening up the nearly imperceptible sound of a running engine makes her stop in her tracks. She stands completely still, like she can’t be seen if she doesn’t move. She slows her breathing to a shallow huff, and her ears strain to follow the engine’s quiet hum against the echoing sound of the city. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, her instincts screaming. Someone’s watching her.

Her eyes drag across each car parked along the road. A brown Buick idles about 20 yards away, its driver shadowed under a small tree which blocks out the light of the streetlamp. The headlights are off but the car’s running, like it’s lying in wait for someone else to make the first move.

Rue turns, squares her feet to the car and watches, heart pounding so heavy that her ribs threaten to crack.

They stay there like this in suspended time, just Rue and that weird car. Something’s not right. She knows it, can feel it in her bones.

Finally, as unassuming as it announced its presence, the car turns on its headlights and makes a u-turn in the street, driving away slowly. Rue watches it fade off, trying and failing to make out the plates. Her heart still beats fast, and when her head starts to spin she realizes she’s forgotten to breathe.

_Get out of here. Now._

As soon as she can feel her legs, she runs home as fast as she can.


	20. The A-Team Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna try something different and do a third-person omniscient POV in the last section. If it works well I may do this again for some of the storylines in part 3. Let me know if you have thoughts about it.

When Bennett asked Lexi to meet her in private, Lexi arrived with almost no expectations (the safest route when it comes to any plan the detective makes). Lexi did, however, expect to meet somewhere with at least a little professionalism. AKA, not a Jamba Juice restroom.

She looks down at the red ‘occupied’ notch on the door handle, then checks the time. 6:37 PM on the dot, just as Bennett requested. Per Bennett’s instruction she knocks six times, waits three seconds, then knocks three times.

When no one answers she’s quick to question herself. Did she knock correctly? Is she even in the right place? Her ever-present self-doubt assaults her with accusations of error until, after a minute, the notch clicks green, red, green—Bennett’s signal to enter. When she pulls the door open a cloud of smoke tumbles out, so pungent and thick that for a moment Lexi thinks the building is burning down.

“Get in here!” a voice whispers urgently as Lexi is pulled inside. The restroom is cramped and humid, and the noxious fumes around her flood her lungs and steal her breath. Bennett leans against the door with a cigarette in hand, though Lexi can barely see her through the thick curtain of smoke. “We need to make a game plan,” the detective states sternly, pointing her cig at the agent like a teacher with a piece of chalk.

“Okay, that sounds good. Can I ask you a question first?”

“Sure.”

“Why are we meeting in a restroom, why are you hotboxing in here, and why the hell are we using secret codes?”

“That’s three questions,” the detective groans.

“Pick one.”

Bennett pushes herself off of the wall and leans close to Lexi. “We had to meet somewhere they can’t find us.” The detective stops there as if no more explanation is needed, except now Lexi has even more questions than before.

“Who’s ‘they’? What are you talking about?”

Bennett takes a long drag of her cigarette before answering. “Have you noticed anyone following you over the last few days?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re positive?” The detective looks her in the eye with the same penetrating look she usually reserves for an interrogation.

“Trust me,” Lexi assures, “if anyone were following me I’d notice.”

“Good. Good. You can’t be too careful.” Bennett shakes her head and flicks her cigarette butt into the toilet, then lights up another.

“Bennett, the cigarettes are _killing me_!”

“I’m stress-smoking, okay? Look, I’m not trying to freak you out or anything,” Bennett tries to assure, which means that she’s definitely about to freak Lexi out. “Last night someone was watching me outside my house.”

The news comes as a gut punch to Lexi, manifestations of two years’ worth of rational fear rippling through her. “Did they try to attack you? Are you hurt?” She fretfully looks Bennett up and down to gauge her partner’s condition.

“I’m okay, we didn’t make contact.”

“But they threatened you somehow, right?”

“Not exactly. I looked at them and they drove away. I just... had a bad feeling about it.”

While her first instinct is to ask Bennett why exactly that interaction led her to think she’s being followed, she knows such a question would invalidate the detective. “We need to have each other’s backs,” she offers instead.

“Agreed. And work even harder now. Find this guy and put this whole case to rest.”

While Lexi stays constantly vigilant, it doesn’t mean she’s not afraid of being followed. That’s been a palpable fear for the last two years. But Bennett’s just built different, cut from stronger cloth than Lexi. The presence of danger only motivates the detective to work harder.

“I really need your help with something,” Bennett continues. Her eyes are softer and her voice shaky, like she’s venturing into uncomfortable territory by simply admitting that she needs the assistance of a partner.

“Of course. Anything.”

“I want to go back to one of the witnesses and talk to them off-the-record.”

Fezco was right—Bennett never asks for anything easy. “We could get in serious trouble,” Lexi reminds her.

“Fuck the police.”

“You _are_ the police.”

“Yeah, and I hate myself.”

Fair point. Yet the main problem remains. “If we get found out we could both be fired. I really do not want to get fired.”

“And if we don’t do anything, innocent people will still be in danger,” Bennett reminds her. Bennett has her pinned and they both know it. Her drive to protect the innocent is Lexi’s best conviction and her critical weakness.

“Fine, you got me. Did you have anyone in mind?”

“We need to start with a witness from one of the earlier cases,” Bennett suggests quickly. “Ines Rafferty from Victim #5. Her details changed pretty dramatically from the initial to the official statement. We can start with her and go from there.”

Lexi doesn’t know how Bennett talks her into half the things they do. Probably because she’s a simp for the detective. Yet despite her reservations about the idea, Lexi knows she’s going to help Bennett. There’s no question about it. When Bennett calls, Lexi will answer.

“But if you’re being followed, won’t we put the witnesses in danger by visiting them?”

“That’s why we have to stay invisible. We need a way to travel without being noticed or recognized.”

Lexi can’t hold back the little grin that forms at Bennett’s words. Now’s her time to shine. “I know a way.”

* * *

“I don’t think I can do this.” Rue’s voice trembles with dread, horrified at the prospect before her. This may be the greatest challenge she’s faced yet in her time with the agent.

“Oh, come on,” Howard assures as she extends her hand from the doorway.

 _You can do this._ With a deep breath to gird herself she takes Howard’s hand and boards a bus for the first time in decades. When she hears the closing doors squeak closed she knows she’s officially trapped, feeling claustrophobic as she follows Howard down the center aisle. Suddenly the bus jolts to a halt, sending Rue tumbling forward before she can grab a pole. Just as she’s accepted the filthy fate of touching a bus floor she lands in Howard’s arms, who thankfully manages to stay on her feet.

“My hero,” Rue mumbles with snark. Howard holds her with one arm around Rue’s chest and one on her back, the unintentional intimacy of the grip makes both women blush. Howard releases her quickly as Rue stands up to regain her footing.

“What was that about me being the clumsy one?”

“Shut up.”

Howard says nothing more, just smirks as she and Rue make their way to the back of the bus. “We need a plan of attack,” the agent suggests once they’ve settled into hard-backed seats with faded stains in the fabric. “If these people are being coerced into false statements, we don’t want to scare them anymore than they already are.”

Rue nods in agreement even though she’s not fully listening. She can feel her earlier momentum draining from her with every passing second, her anxiety battling her for control of her attention.

Fortunately the agent is able to compensate for Rue’s lack of focus. “Let’s not frame this as, like, an interrogation,” she rambles in a low voice, her lips close to Rue’s ear. “We can just say we’re checking in, y’know? Seeing how she’s doing. Really casual.”

“Two cops coming over for a casual ‘wellness check’? Nothing scary about that.”

“It’s all about how we approach it,” Howard tries to convince her. “Let me put it this way: you always go hard. You’re a generally... _hard_... person. And don’t get me wrong, it’s badass. But we need to strike a balance this time. We need hard _and_ soft.”

“I’m hard, you’re soft?”

“Exactly.”

Bennett nods in complete understanding.

As they sit in silence the detective squirms in her seat, tapping her fingers on her palms and inhaling sharply whenever the bus screeches to a halt. She surveys each passenger carefully, from the little old woman with the bag of groceries to the little boys tossing a soccer ball back and forth across the aisle. Any one of them could be her stalker—watching her, following her. Well, maybe not the kids, but anyone else. Just the thought of her stalker hiding in plain sight makes her skin crawl.

She’s about to scoot closer to the agent when she catches herself. She and Howard are already pressed together arm-in-arm, just like during BB’s interview, and neither of them even noticed their close proximity. Like such closeness is natural for them at this point. Rue’s face burns at the thought, suddenly self-conscious as she scoots away to allow some distance between them.

Sensing the detective’s discomfort, Howard pulls her lips to the side in a frown. “I knew you prefer cars but I didn’t realize you hated the bus this much.”

“What if the brakes go out? Or this thing goes over a ledge? It’s no safer than a carnival ride.”

“Hey, nothing bad’s gonna happen.”

“At least if something bad happens while I’m driving I can try to prevent it. This thing’s a rolling deathtrap.”

“But you don’t need to worry about that because nothing’s going to happen. I’ve taken the bus to work for five years and it’s only wrecked twice.”

“That does not make me feel better at all.”

“I’m _kidding._ Just enjoy the ride. The bus is a sacred place, the great equalizer. You might even meet some interesting people on here. See, look at that guy. He looks nice.”

The man in a sideways row ahead of them pulls his jacket back to reveal a pigeon hidden in the inner pocket. He smiles at them, then puts his finger to his lips to hush as the pigeon coos. The partners look at each other with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Bennett mutters, “I’ll take your word for it.”

They ride in silence for a few minutes, during which Rue feels like she’s finally calming down. Maybe she’s being stalked by a killer, and maybe she’s trapped in a steel cage on wheels, but at least Howard has her back. She can trust the agent.

Trust isn’t something that Rue’s comfortable or even entirely familiar with. And after Jules left Rue definitely thought she’d never enjoy the luxury of trusting someone again. But Howard managed to wrangle her trust back from the grave. She even got Rue onto a bus for the first time in years. Howard must trust her too, because Rue talked her into interviewing a witness on a whim.

That’s the mark of a good partnership—not just working well together, but trusting each other. Feeling safe with each other. Wanting more from each other.

* * *

The bus drops Rue and Lexi off two blocks away from their destination and they trudge the rest of the way to Rafferty’s house on foot. Rue looks over her shoulder every ten feet, watchful for any suspicious vehicles that may be following. Lexi’s nervous too, but for different reasons. This is very, very off-book; a high-risk high-reward venture that makes their previous antics seem tame by comparison. For the detective’s sake, however, she has to be strong.

As they finally reach the witness’s doorstep, Rue turns to Lexi and swallows a lump in her throat. “You’re sure you want to do this? You can still back out.”

“Now or never,” Lexi shrugs. The partners face each other and share a deep look that provides each other the much-needed assurance to continue. Then, with bated breath, Lexi knocks.

Rue looks over her shoulder one more time then mutters something under her breath. The nervous energy comes off of her like a bad cologne. “Relax,” Lexi whispers, “everything’s gonna be fine.” Despite the words of reassurance Rue can tell the agent’s nervous too, though Howard hides it a little better.

Finally the door creaks open, their knock answered by a middle-aged woman whom they immediately recognize from the case file. She’s tall, though not as tall as Rue, and her black hair is pulled back in a bun which highlights the worn wrinkles on her face. “Can I help you?” she questions with a frown.

The partners greet Rafferty with painfully forced smiles. “Hi Miss Rafferty. House call!” the detective exclaims as the agent gives her a small wave.

“Excuse me?”

Rue and Lexi turn to each other then back to the witness. “We are... LA County’s Social Services Unit,” Rue states with a nod as she looks at Howard again. After a moment of confusion Lexi nods emphatically, trying to keep up with Bennett’s improv. Of course the detective just can’t stick to the plan for once. “We’re here for a follow-up visit from your interview with the LAPD.”

“It’s protocol,” Lexi bullshits to appease Rafferty’s obvious skepticism.

Rafferty still doesn’t look convinced, but after looking around behind them she steps aside to let the partners in. “Gene, we have guests,” she calls out harshly. A middle-aged man grunts and leans up from his recliner, pulling his tee shirt down to conceal his prominent beer belly as he ambled away. While the partners take their seats next to each other on the couch Rafferty busies herself with tidying the living room.

“I’ll be honest, I thought I was going to be done with this mess after the official statement.”

“Oh no, we don’t need anything else from you,” Lexi tries to convince her. “We just to make sure you’re well. That you’re safe.”

“And that you haven’t had to deal with any... continuing issues from your recent testimony,” Rue adds.

The woman stops and straightens her back, giving them a penetrating look. “What do you mean, ‘continuing issues’?”

The woman’s cagey demeanor sets Lexi on edge, while Rue stubbornly views her obstinance as a challenge to defeat. “So you’d say you feel generally safe?” the detective pushes. “You don’t feel like you’re in danger?”

Rafferty looks between them with a wide-eyed glare before moving slowly to her mantle. “Why would I feel like I’m in danger?”

“It’s just that it’s a high-profile case. Lots of weirdos out there who might try to come after you.” Evidently Rue’s not being subtle enough, because she gets a forceful nudge from Howard’s elbow. Lexi can feel the situation slipping out of their control thanks to the detective going off-book.

“I’m not sure who you people are, or how you found me, but I’m not comfortable with this.”

“Okay this isn’t working Howard,” Rue grunts in frustration. “I wanna go hard now.”

“No, Bennett! Don’t go hard!”

Faster than Rue or Lexi can react, Rafferty whips out a stun gun from behind a clock on the mantle and aims it squarely at Lexi’s chest. “Who are you people? Really, who are you and why are you in my house? Who sent you?”

“Shit!” Lexi draws a sharp breath as she raises her hands, her heart rate spiking. “Why the _heck_ do people keep doing this?” she gasps with a trembling voice.

Hearing the quivering fear in Howard’s voice, Rue positions herself between Howard and the stun gun with palms raised. “Easy there. I lied, okay? We’re from the LAPD. We don’t want any trouble.” Rue flashes her badge for confirmation, even though it makes her feel like a douchebag.

Rafferty’s eyes dart between the partners, still clinching the gun tight with two hands. After a moment of tense deliberation she lowers the stun gun. Rue can see her partner is still trembling but stays focused on Rafferty while Lexi tries to catch her breath.

“How do you think you can help me?” the witness asks. The edge in her voice is gone and her voice is now low and hollow, an entirely different tone from the one she had assumed moments earlier. Rue and Lexi realize at about the same time that Rafferty is just as scared as they are.

“We’re looking into the Sandman Strangler’s witnesses. We want to know if they have any more information they’re not telling,” Rue tries to explain.

“Why would we...” Rafferty begins, then stops herself. She swallows, her eyes searching the room. “I don’t want to say much. Like I said, I don’t know you people.”

“We understand.” Finally calm, Lexi rises from the couch to stand next to Rue. “We took precautions so that we could visit you without putting you at risk.”

“This is strictly off-record,” Rue elaborates. “We just need to know one thing: did anyone influence your official witness statement?”

Rafferty’s face is flush, her mouth pinched in a straight line and her eyes distant. “I said what I said and it’s too late to change anything now. But I did it because I have a family I have to protect.” She confesses nothing more, her words allowing enough ambiguity for multiple interpretations. The implication that the witness may have held back in her statement, that maybe Rue’s actually onto something here, is a chilling realization for both the agent and detective.

“Ma’am, thank you for your time. We’re so sorry for the confusion,” Lexi explains as she grabs Rue’s upper arm and tows her outside.

“Why did we have to leave?” Rue asks sharply when they reach the porch. “We were so close to finding something out!”

“We can’t make her talk about something that would put her and her family in danger. That defeats our whole purpose.”

Though she wants to disagree, Rue knows the agent is right. “That was a disaster,” she sighs as they make their way through the front gate and down the sidewalk. “But at least it was an interesting one.” Rue looks over her shoulder to check for suspicious persons.

“Why did you say we were from social services? It threw me off.”

“I don’t know, I was trying to make her feel comfortable. Obviously it didn’t work.”

“Look at you getting all soft,” Lexi teases with another nudge of her elbow. “Detective Bennett really does have a heart.”

“I’m not soft!”

“I know you. You all act tough, but deep down you’re a total softy.”

As much as she dislikes the agent’s assessment, Rue knows she can’t argue with it. “You’re really feeling yourself today,” she observes as she elbows Howard right back.

Lexi’s lips twitch into a smile that she tries to hide. She knows she’s probably being too forward. If she’s not careful she’ll drive Bennett off. But she’s happy, genuinely giddy to the point that she can’t stop herself, all because of one thing. “Like I said, just glad we’re working together again.”

“Me too, because this whole situation is so fucked.”

“Well, we’re in it together.” As soon as Lexi says this she regrets it. That was definitely too forward.

Though Rue doesn’t react to the agent’s words they definitely reassure her. She’s still viscerally afraid, but knowing that Howard has her back makes things slightly bearable. Even if the agent is gun-shy she still has guts.

The sun sinks into the horizon as they walk in silence, and the darker it gets the more nervous Rue becomes. She imagines that brown car, staked out in front of her house waiting for her return. Watching, waiting. Just the thought makes her stomach twist. Lexi can feel the nervous energy coming off of her partner just like before.

“Are you okay? You seem anxious.”

“I’m always anxious.”

“You seem more anxious than usual,” Lexi clarifies. She’s not going to let Bennett get out of this conversation so easily. If something else is wrong she wants to know about it.

“I’m just… I’m freaked out, okay? I’ve never been followed before.”

Lexi stops walking and turns to face Rue. She’s not accustomed to this level of honesty from Bennett, and to hear her say that she’s freaked out is a major concession from the detective.

“You’re sure they were following you? They weren’t just idling in the street?”

The idea that Howard doesn’t believe her hits Rue like a slap in the face. “I know my instincts. They aren’t wrong,” she snaps defensively.

What makes the situation worse is that Lexi’s almost completely powerless to help. There’s nothing she can do or say to appease her partner’s fears or guarantee her safety. Because safety is an illusion, able to be stripped away in a moment’s notice. She just hates that Bennett is experiencing this feeling.

“I believe you,” Lexi promises her partner. “Come on, my apartment’s not too far from here. We’ll figure out how to get you home safe.”


	21. Phantoms Past and Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this weekend was nuts. Congrats Emmy winner Zendaya! RIP RBG. If you live in the US please, please vote in November. It’s what both of them would want.

With the appearance of a cozy home yet none of the warmth, Howard’s apartment feels like a showcase. It’s clean and orderly with no mess to indicate that someone lives here. Tasteful Target-brand art hangs on the wall instead of pictures of family or friends. The scene before her is so pristine that Rue stands dumbly in the entryway, afraid of contaminating Howard’s living space with her mere presence.

She’s just beginning to rethink coming here when her stomach growls audibly. “Have you eaten today?” Howard questions her as she closes the door behind them.

Rue shrugs, unable to recall if she’s had a meal besides the bag of animal crackers she had for breakfast, which Howard meets with a disapproving frown. “Are you still skipping meals? You really need to take better care of yourself.”

“Okay Mom,” she deadpans in reply.

“Have a seat. Do you like grilled cheese?” Howard offers as she goes into the kitchen. Howard’s always fussing over her in a way that’s amusing and, though Rue would never admit it, even a little comforting. It’s nice when someone isn’t afraid to show they care, and Howard has left no room for doubt about that.

“Sure,” Rue accepts as she sits down on the couch.

“Anything to drink? Juice, water, milk?”

“Coffee.”

“It’s almost 11. I’m not making you coffee this late.”

Rue doesn’t argue since she’s a guest in Howard’s home. She leans back with a deep exhale. It’s funny how things have played out in the last few weeks. Not in a way she would have expected, but not in a bad way either. She’s isn’t completely botching the case, her chances at reinstatement are looking pretty good, and she’s improved her emotional status from “train wreck” to “semi-functioning.” But the most pleasant surprise of all, certainly the last thing she saw coming, was how her partnership with Senior Special Agent Howard has developed.

Just a few weeks ago Rue saw the new liaison as a parasite and was determined to drive her away from the case. Now they’re fighting to keep working together, defying orders in secret, spending more and more time together, visiting each other’s homes, opening up about themselves…

And it’s been so easy, at least compared to most emotional labor. That’s the crazy part. Sure, there’s been some angst and some doubt—more accurately, a lot of angst and doubt, but when she’s face-to-face with Howard it all fades to the back.

This could end in trouble. She’s still very aware of that. Bringing Howard to her home on Friday was one thing, but being in Howard’s home is quite another. It’s nerve-racking but exciting—another rare, tantalizing glimpse into the agent’s personal life.

The clatter of a plate being placed in front of her interrupts her meditation. Just the smell of the hot sandwich reminds her of how hungry she is. It’s even cut diagonally just the way she likes it. There’s no way Howard could have known that, but she still manages to hit all the right notes.

Howard slumps down at the opposite end of the couch and kicks her feet up on the coffee table. “What a day,” she sighs as she loosens her collar.

“What a fucking day,” Rue echoes in agreement.

Howard peers at Rue from the corner of her eye then looks down at her hands quickly. “The way you jumped in front of that stun gun earlier was... I mean, it was reckless, but also pretty badass.”

“Thanks,” Rue mumbles through a mouthful. “Means a lot coming from a fellow badass.”

Howard scoffs at the idea. “Are you being sarcastic? Because I’m definitely not a badass.”

Rue won’t stand for the self-critique any longer. Howard’s excellent and she needs to know it. “You’re like Clarice Starling from _Silence of the Lambs_.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Have you even seen the movie? She’s a certified badass.”

“I’m not really into those kinds of movies,” Howard admits she unbuttons her cuffs. “I like documentaries.”

“To each their own,” Rue allows. Though she personally doesn’t understand the appeal of such a boring format, the slow and steady nature of the genre does suit Howard well.

While Rue finishes gnawing on her sandwich, leaving only the crust uneaten, Howard catches some shut-eye. She’s sprawled out in a state of relaxedness that Rue hasn’t seen from the agent yet, not even while she was asleep. It’s nice to see her like this since the poor woman’s usually so tense that she looks like she could snap in half.

Howard’s calmness immediately sets Rue at ease, finally helping her to reclaim the sense of safety she thought she had lost in her recent standoff with the brown sedan. “Y’know, you’re so nice to me. I don’t know why you haven’t given up on me by now,” she remarks with a dry laugh.

When she looks up and sees Howard’s puppy eyes she knows she’s deprecated herself too much. Howard hates that kind of negative self-reference from Rue. “Oh come on, I was just kidding,” she tries to disclaim to appease the agent.

“You’re always hard on yourself.”

“So are you,” Rue points out, which they both know Howard can’t deny. The way Howard beats herself up is frustrating to watch. Even though Rue does the same thing.

“You and I, we’re not so different.”

“We’re not?”

“Sure. We both work too much. We both care too much. We’re both very private people,” Rue counts off with her fingers. She shifts in her seat to face Howard directly like a compass finding true north.

“We’ve both got some serious problems,” Howard adds.

Rue adds this point to her finger count even though she’s not sure what Howard means by it. Howard definitely has some baggage that she’s hiding. However, when it comes to who’s mentally healthier between the two, Howard still probably has Rue beat by miles. At least she maintains the appearance of wellness, which Rue isn’t even capable of.

“I’m sorry, by the way. About Friday,” Howard mumbles after a beat of silence, her eyes still trained on her hands.

Rather than point out the unnecessary apologizing again, Rue decides to see where Howard’s going with this. “What about it?”

“Getting drunk when we were supposed to work. It bothers me that I did that. I don’t want it to mess up our partnership.”

“Why would that affect our partnership?”

Usually the agent would opine on some grander observation, weaving in a poetic metaphor or fable, but tonight she keeps her words succinct. “Distrust is a natural consequence of addiction,” she states simply and leaves it at that.

“How do you come up with all the deep shit you say? Do you read it online or...?”

“Yeah, I keep it all in a little black notebook and rehearse my lines in the bathroom.”

“So _that’s_ what you were doing in Fezco’s bathroom!”

Howard laughs at first before her demeanor turns serious again. “I just don’t want to end up like my mom. I don’t even want to entertain that possibility. And the only way that’ll happen is if I let myself drink.”

The tone of the conversation palpably shifts around these words. Though Rue’s natural instinct is to run from the prospect of growing intimacy, she keeps herself rooted. She tries to remember all of those resolutions she made after her last conversation with Dr. Harmon about being more open and allowing risk. No preemptively pushing away this time.

“So I take it your mom liked to get lost in the sauce?”

“To say the least—she drank pretty much constantly.” Howard’s lips shift while she plans her words. They’re both aware of the risk inherent to discussing the nature of alcoholism in front of alcoholic. “I used to get angry at her but then after a while I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She was still really selfish.”

“Do you think less of people who drink?” Rue ventures, unsure if she wants to hear the honest answer. Howard clearly has a problem with people who drink, and the idea that Howard would think less of Rue for her vices hurts her heart.

Howard’s eyes smolder as she stares Rue down. “Only when they know they have a problem and don’t try to get better,” she offers tactfully, though the bitter edge in her tone is unmistakable. “That’s what my mom did, and that’s what bothers me: when they know they’re hurting people and they still don’t even try to stop.”

Though Rue’s a little rusty in terms of her own diplomatic skills she has to tread carefully for Howard’s sake. How can she stand up for her viewpoint without justifying all of the damage she’s created from her addiction? “For me, the worst part is seeing your life fall apart and not being able to do anything about it,” she states carefully to try and to toe the line.

The answer apparently isn’t to Howard’s liking. “But you _can_ do something about it. You can stop and get help.”

“It’s not like you can just flip a switch,” Rue pushes back. “Trust me, I resent my addiction more than anyone else in my life. If I knew how to stop I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

Perhaps she’s misreading this whole conversation. Common sense tells her that she shouldn’t defend an addict’s position when Howard was so hurt by one. But it feels so good to get these words off her chest, to release every frustration and attack every misconception that has bothered her for years. She’s not just talking to Howard but her mom, Gia, Jules, and everyone else who’s been affected. Yes, Rue has hurt them, but Rue’s hurting herself too.

“I really do respect it when someone tries to get better. You don’t have to be perfect as long as you’re trying to better yourself.” Ever respectful, Howard understands the force behind Rue’s words even if she doesn’t understand the perspective. Because it’s Howard. And Howard is safe, remember?

“Y’know, I thought you’d be mad at me after Friday.” Finally bringing up the subject, Rue looks down at her scuffed shoes since looking at the agent just makes her feel more humiliated by the admission.

“Why would I be mad at you? I was the one being all needy and pathetic.”

“You weren’t pathetic. You weren’t,” Rue replies forcefully, surprising even herself with her intensity. The notion that Howard has been anything near needy and pathetic is completely wrong. She has to convince Howard that it’s okay to open up, to express one’s needs, though even Rue isn’t completely convinced of this yet.

Though she’s not completely sold on the idea that she’s not to blame, Howard seems eager to put the subject behind them. “Let’s call it even.”

“Deal.” A relieved smile crosses on Rue’s mouth that she quickly tries to hide.

Finally at ease, the two of them enjoy the simplicity of the moment. Any pretense of Rue being here just to find a safe way home has been dropped at this point. She’s entirely prepared to crash on Howard’s couch if given the option. Feeling emboldened, she decides to push further with the agent. The second she’s away from Howard’s presence she’ll probably regret doing this, but in the moment it feels right. And she just can’t help herself.

“Speaking of deals, I haven’t forgotten about that little deal we made the other night.”

It takes Howard a moment to place what Rue is talking about. Then her face falls at the recollection of their apparently Faustian bargain: Rue’s first name for details on _McKay_.

“You still want to do that?” Howard asks nervously.

“Yep.”

“I was intoxicated. Wouldn’t that null the deal?”

“Good thing it wasn’t a legal agreement.”

Howard purses her lips and for a moment Rue thinks she might back out. But Howard’s a woman of her word. “Fine. You first.”

Though Rue really hates the idea of sharing her first name, it’s worth the price of admission to find out who this McKay guy is. “I just want to preface,” she starts to ramble, “that I think it’s dumb to derive any meaning from someone’s name. It’s something you’re randomly given and it doesn’t have any bearing—.”

“Shhh,” Howard interrupts, holding her finger up to Rue’s face to stop the word vomit. Once Rue’s got her words back under control Howard lets her proceed.

“My first name—not that it matters at all—is Rue.”

“Roo as in kangaroo?”

“No,” she sighs. “R-U-E. As in ‘to feel sorrow over or regret bitterly’.”

An amused smile spreads across Howard’s face. “You memorized the definition of your own name?”

“Yeah, so I can explain how much I hate it. I was Rue’d the day I was born.”

Now Howard’s laughing, which in turn makes Rue start to laugh. The all-too-rare sound of the agent’s hiccupping giggles is contagious.

“Seriously! I was named after regret, that’s basically a curse from birth!”

“I think it’s a cute name,” Howard comments as her laughing dies down. She blinks quickly and clears her throat as if she wasn’t expecting her own response. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Okay, my turn.” Rue’s eyes dance as she leans closer to Howard. “Who’s McKay?”

“I feel like I kind of already answered that question.”

“Yeah but like… how do you know him exactly?”

Howard squirms, looking very much on the hot seat. “Why do you care so much about him?” she tries to deflect.

“I don’t know, I’m just curious!” Technically true, even if it’s an understatement. Maybe she’s a little jealous of someone who’s close enough to Howard to hug her and tell her he loves her. Not that Rue would like to do either of those things, but her personal interest in the agent is beyond question at this point. “So, who is he?”

“He’s no one,” Howard argues unconvincingly, her voice rising.

“You’re someone to him.”

A display of emotions pass through Howard’s face before her expression finally settles somewhere between surrender and stress. “McKay...” she starts off, then stops like the words are caught in her throat. She tosses her hands up in the air. “I’ve known him since high school, really. He’s always been really close with my family.”

“Okay, so he’s like a family friend?”

“Technically he’s my brother-in-law.”

Out of all the possible connections Rue had considered, ‘brother-in-law’ was definitely not one of them. “Wait, you were married?”

“No!”

“Okay…”

Howard’s eyes glaze over and her jaw clenches, that dark side of hers resurfacing based on the way her face suddenly clouds. She speaks in a slow mumble, her words catching in her throat. “He was... He was my sister’s husband.”

_Wait, what?_

Rue’s head spins at these words, dozens of new questions dancing in her mind. “You never told me you had a sister.”

“I used to.” 

“So—.”

“We don’t need to get into it,” Howard sharply cuts her off.

Howard stares blankly at the wall, looking as though she’s drowning in her mind from the other end of the couch. Rue’s seen that distant, stormy look in Howard’s eyes many times before, and suddenly it all comes together. Of course there had to be a reason for why Howard acts so weird. How could Rue have been so blind? The signs of a deeper wound were obvious. The secrecy, the spacing out, the jumpiness, that nightmare—it all traces back to something, even if Rue doesn’t know what exactly. It’s almost as if she let the agent down by not realizing sooner that something was amiss. Even though Howard doesn’t want to reveal the full picture.

“Did you know I have a sister?” Rue ventures. No time to dwell on the significance of finally opening up about her own family. Maybe later Rue can try to crack the sister mystery, but for now she needs to focus on saving Howard from her own thoughts.

Howard’s brain delays in registering the words. Then she shakes her shoulders as if rousing herself out of her memories. “You’ve mentioned her before,” she mumbles, her voice cracking again. Her face is still clouded but her eyes are clearer.

“Gia. She lives in Chicago now, so I don’t get to see her. Not that she’d want to see me.” Rue’s not really thinking about what she’s saying anymore, just letting the words come out for Howard to take however she chooses. She reminds herself that in a weird, indirect way, she’s helping Howard by opening up to her.

“After my dad died we were all each other had, so we used to be really close—me and Gia and my mom. And then we grew up and... life happened, and here we are.” As if seeking out comfort in some awkward, indirect way Rue stretches her legs across Howard’s lap, which the agent looks very uncertain about. But at least Howard’s coming back to the present, her mind moving back out from that dark cloud engulfing her for the past few days. If Rue opening up about personal shit is what helps Howard, so be it.

“Jules always told me all I had to do was reach out to Gia and she and I would be okay again. But I look at her now and she’s successful, she’s happy. I can’t mess that up by trying to get back into her life. Besides, she and my mom probably hate me by now.”

“They don’t hate you. They just doesn’t trust you. But they’ll always love you. Nothing can change that.” The response is classic Howard. It’s a good sign that she’s sounding like herself again, even if her advice isn’t fully informed to the dynamics of the Bennett family Howard’s always trying to help.

“Funny thing is, when Jules left I found out texts and calls don’t fix anything. Not when you’ve already messed up too many times.”

Howard gives her a far-off look. “Don’t waste the time you have with them,” she states simply. From the hollowness in her voice the agent speaks from experience.

Despite the fact that Rue’s drowning in curiosity, she knows that she has to end this conversation. This is obviously one subject Howard’s not willing to open up on and Rue can’t push her. “Show me your favorite documentary," she gestures to the TV to try and change the subject.

Howard stares at her for a few seconds until she understands that Rue’s trying to move onto a lighter topic. As she readjusts her brain she has to take a few deep breaths, which it looks like she tries to conceal so Rue won’t notice. Why is she even still trying to pretend? She’s not okay and they both know it. Howard always gives Rue the space she needs when Rue’s not doing well, but Howard won’t allow herself the same grace.

Rue hands her the remote from the coffee table and Howard settles back into the couch, flicking through the options. Eventually she picks something about the fall of the Roman Empire, but by the time she’s made her selection Rue’s already drifting off to sleep.

* * *

_“Rue? Are you gonna stop me?”_

_Even through the fogginess of the dreamscape Rue recognizes where she is. She’s in her apartment—her and Jules’ apartment—and Jules is standing in the door, bags in hand, calling out one last time before she leaves forever._

_Rue finds her voice before the door closes. “Jules, wait. I can change. I will change. For you.”_

_Jules falters in the doorway. Then, instead of taking her leave, she steps back inside and closes the door behind her. She leans in close to Rue, holds her hands and nuzzles their noses together. “I know you can. We’ll get through this together. I would never leave you.”_

Rue wakes up with a gasp before she settles down, a sick feeling still pitting in her stomach. Howard’s fast asleep on the other end of the couch and Netflix has automatically paused whatever movie was next on the queue. She checks the time: 4 AM. They must have stayed up pretty late talking.

Moving as slowly as possible, Rue moves her legs out from Howard’s lap without waking her up. Howard’s neck is bent awkwardly, which will probably give her a crick in the morning if she doesn’t have neck support. As she tries to slide a pillow underneath the agent’s head Rue gently lifts the agent’s heads up. She has to pause while cradling Howard’s head, because it actually feels pretty precious to hold her like this. She also pulls the blanket over Howard’s shoulders since she looks cold. Now that Howard’s sufficiently taken care of Rue bolts for the door.

Perhaps it’s wrong to ditch but it isn’t right to stay after the dream she just had. That’s all it was—a dream. Jules is still gone and, contrary to her wishful dreaming, Rue couldn’t stop her.

Outside the cool night air greets her with echoes of distant traffic and crickets. She scans for signs of life doesn’t detect anything, which hopefully means she’s given her stalker the slip. Now that she’s free to roam the streets, a nice, long night walk is just what she needs to clear her head, so she heads in the general direction of her apartment.

She’s always chasing after what she can’t have—maybe that’s why she’s exhausted all the time. She chased after Jules until she chased Jules away. She chases leads like they’re lifelines. And now, for some strange reason, Rue’s chasing Howard. That in itself isn’t bad, but there’s more that could go wrong than could go right. And now just when she was making strides, just when she thought she’d made it to daylight, she gets pulled back under. Jules will always be there like a shadow hovering over her. Reminding Rue of the cost of love and being loved, of the sting of inevitable betrayal. Nobody can be trusted.

Except for Howard, right? Howard’s never been anything _but_ loyal. She’s the only one on the case who even listens to Rue. She’s as protective of Rue as Rue is of her. If they’re close enough to share secrets and beds, they can trust each other.

_Don’t be so naïve, Rue. Just because Howard has been loyal so far doesn’t mean she isn’t a risk. She was hiding a sister, who knows what else she’s hiding? You barely know her. And she doesn’t know you either. When she discovers who you really are, she’ll run too._

It’s just the paranoia talking. Of course Howard’s not going to hurt her. How many times will she have to convince herself of that? If anything Rue will be the one to hurt Howard. The sequence of events in her recent conversations with Howard resemble the cycle of Rue’s last relationship: get close, share too much, run away… rinse and repeat.

_She believes in you, which means you’re gonna let her down. You’re gonna break her heart. There’s no way this ends well._

Rue walks faster with every succeeding thought. The potential for heartbreak is growing with every hour spent working together, every deep conversation, every physical touch. Try as they might to avoid it, one of them is going to get hurt. Though Rue would rather it be herself than Howard she doesn’t have the best track record with salvaging people’s feelings.

In between these ebbs and flows of self-confidence, a cigarette is just what she needs right now. As her breathing spikes again Rue pats her pocket for her pack, then remembers she ran out earlier. “Fuck,” she spits under her breath.

Just as the panic starts to overtake her she stops in her tracks, looking at a glowing neon sign blinking and humming down at her: “24-Hour Convenience: CBD, Food, Liquor.” She stares up at that last word, mouth agape. At her weakest moment her greatest vice has just been presented her a solution. The solution to her panic and her racing thoughts. And also the source of her failure, heartbreak, and misery. Wave after wave of temptation crash into her as she stands planted in her spot, staring up at that flickering neon. Time for her moment of truth.


	22. Face to Face (Part 1)

Lexi wakes up with the sun in her eyes and an emotional hangover rivaling last week’s actual hangover. She stirs and stretches, rubs little circles into her temples. But her relaxation doesn’t last long. When she realizes the detective’s not on the other end of the couch she sits bolt upright, her mind immediately moving to the worst possible scenario.

“Bennett?”

No response. The detective’s keys and wallet aren’t on the coffee table anymore so she must have left in the night. Lexi snatches her phone from the coffee table and quickly texts her partner to check in.

_Lexi: Did you get home ok? What time did you leave?_

There’s probably a good reason why Bennett didn’t stay. She is a wild card, after all. You never really know what’s going on with her. Yet Lexi can’t help but wonder if she went too far. What if Bennett bailed because Lexi got all weird once Cassie was brought up?

Before she can answer her question, her phone buzzes with a new text.

_Bennett: ya. left late_

Relieved, she slumps back down on the couch and pulls her blanket over her. And then her phone buzzes again.

_Bennett: thank you for everything.. don’t know what I’d do without you :P_

Her breath hitches as she reads. It’s a nice little message until the emoticon at the end undercuts any trace of sincerity in classic Bennett fashion. Either she’s aware of Lexi’s _romantic_ feelings and is screwing with her, or she’s genuinely still oblivious to it (probably, hopefully, the latter).

Meanwhile Lexi’s still riddled with an acute case of lovesickness. And sure, Bennett’s the one torturing her, but Lexi willingly subjects herself to it because, sad as it may be, it’s better than nothing.

_Lexi: That’s what I’m here for._

_Bennett: wanna get breakfast before work_

_Bennett: ?_

She smiles as she reads the text. She can’t name a better duo than Bennett and breakfast. Besides their little A-Team.

* * *

Lexi sits in the same seat, in the same booth, at the same diner where she and Bennett shared their first meal. True to character, she takes a moment to pause and appreciate the significance of how far they’ve come in such a couple of months. The last time they were here they were practically strangers just starting out on the case. Now the Strangler’s in custody, they’re defying orders as secret partners, and Lexi’s gone all the way across town, making her late to work, for the sake of spending a little bit of time with the detective.

She goes ahead and gets herself a lumberjack meal. For Bennett, banana pancakes with whipped cream and chocolate syrup—just the way she likes it. Before she knows it Bennett’s there, standing at the entrance as she searches the tables for Lexi’s face. And _damn_ , if Bennett isn’t beautiful even under fluorescent light. The way the light hits Bennett’s cheekbones makes Lexi want to…

 _Whoa, easy there Lex. A little early in the morning for that_ , she thinks to herself as Bennett makes her way to the table.

The detective greets the agent by slapping some papers in front of her. “More notes, as promised.” Then Bennett slides into the booth, her eyes lighting up as she sees the food before her. “You ordered me pancakes!” she almost shouts. Up close her eyes are bloodshot, her clothes rumpled. Wasn’t she wearing the same clothes yesterday?

“Are you okay? You don’t look great.”

“Aw, thanks,” Bennett hums sarcastically through a mouthful.

“Shit, I didn’t say that well. I meant, it looks like you didn’t get a lot of rest.”

The detective looks at her like Lexi knows something she doesn’t, then her eyes flicker down to her plate. “It was a long night, y’know? Oh, gimme.” She grabs Lexi’s Starbucks cup, takes a swig and frowns. When she pulls off the lid she gives Lexi an incredulous look. “Why are you drinking orange juice in a coffee cup?”

“I just like drinking out of coffee cups.”

Bennett shakes her head, the logic lost on her. “You are a strange one.”

“Guilty as charged.” Lexi throws her hands up in mock surrender.

How can Bennett act so cool and casual, as if they weren’t pouring their hearts out to each other just a few hours ago? They’re quiet for a few minutes, enjoying their food in domestic silence before Bennett breaks the silence again. “So are you okay?”

That’s a question Lexi should be asking Bennett instead. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seemed sad last night.”

“The soul-searching was intense,” Lexi understates. Bennett’s not wrong; she _was_ sad after their conversation about Cassie. There’s no hiding the sorrow she feels at the very mention of the subject, especially from the detective.

“If you ever want to talk about it I could listen, I guess,” Bennett offers, then takes another bite of pancakes. “Not that I’d make you. I’m just saying I’m there. If you want.”

Lexi looks into those red-rimmed hazel eyes, looking straight back at her without one hint of guile.

The offer means a lot to her, even if she’ll never take Bennett up on it. Two years ago she swore never to even raise the subject of her sister again, much less the circumstances around what had happened to her. But she also knows that when Bennett wants to know something there’s no stopping her pursuit of the truth. Lexi still can’t figure out if that’s a good thing or a bad thing that a fragment of her secret is out in the open. Is it possible to feel relief and regret at the same time?

To shift off of the subject Lexi picks up the stack of notes and flips through them. “Thanks for doing this, by the way.”

“Remind me how you tricked me into doing your homework for you?”

“So that you can drag me into those weird schemes of yours. Speaking of which, what’s your game plan? Still want to talk to another witness?”

Bennett scrapes up the last of the food on her plate and nods affirmatively, officially clear to talk business now that mealtime’s over. “I need intel. What’s the latest on Tyler Clarkson?”

Lexi does have news, but not something Bennett will enjoy hearing. “My contact at the County DA’s office says Tyler’s gonna plead guilty to avoid the worst. But there’s another couple of victims in Denver and Salt Lake who fit the pattern, and if they can link the Strangler to multiple states this will become a federal case. Then the death penalty’s back on the table.”

Bennett sits in silence for a moment while she contemplates the news, her mouth stretching into a thin, pressed line. “Why plead guilty when you’re innocent?” she wonders aloud.

“Here’s a crazy idea—maybe he’s actually guilty.”

The detective half shakes her head and scoffs like the idea is somehow absurd. “What do _you_ think?”

“I stand by my drain hair theory. And that’s what found us Tyler Clarkson. So yeah, I do think he’s our bad guy.”

Bennett looks at her like a parent whose kid just failed kindergarten, the detective’s sheer disappointment slapping her from across the table. Though she wants to wither away from Bennett’s glare Lexi stands her ground and stares right back.

The mood for the rest of their meal is markedly sullen, souring from their usual easy report. Even if they couldn’t always agree on tactics, Lexi could always respect Bennett’s reasoning. But she just can’t understand why the detective refuses to accept Tyler’s guilt. Because despite how she feels Lexi’s not crazy for her opinion. Bennett’s the real outlier here, the lone dissenter against dozens of experts who accept the evidence that Tyler really is the Strangler.

* * *

Something’s wrong with Bennett. Lexi just can’t shake the feeling.

Work at the field office is moving slower now that the Clarkson investigation is wrapping up. You’d think that would allow her to catch up on the rest of work she put off while she was out running around with Bennett. Instead it gives her too much time to think, which of course is never good for her.

Plus it’s incredibly hard to focus when Bennett won’t stop texting her. The detective’s working in overdrive to try and poke a hole in Tyler’s prosecution. Ideas, questions, theories… Lexi barely has the chance to process one message before the next comes in.

When her phone buzzes yet again Lexi buries her face in her hands and growls aloud. This is driving her crazy. And the worst part is that she can’t not respond, which is just encouraging Bennett even further.

_Bennett: did you measure his hands??_

_Lexi: They’re a little on the small side… But that could be because the prints on the neck were distorted. He always wore gloves._

_Bennett: if tyler’s really our bad guy then why am I still being followed_

_Bennett: hmm????_

_Bennett: these are the tough questions, howard_

Bursts of manic energy aren’t abnormal for Bennett, but the detective’s paranoia has her particularly concerned. Lexi does have some explanations for this in mind, none of which pacify her worry.

Bennett could be in another manic state. It would make sense that the detective’s bipolar is driving this, yet Lexi’s mind keeps moving to the worst scenario. What if Bennett’s paranoid because she’s drinking? What if she left in the night not because Lexi drove her off, but because she went to get alcohol? God, Lexi sounds even more paranoid that Bennett right now. But she can’t ignore the evidence. The bloodshot eyes and generally disheveled appearance at breakfast, the paranoia, the mood swings… Lexi’s seen the signs of relapse many times (albeit the evidence is anything but definitive in this case).

The very idea makes Lexi sick to her stomach, devastated at the thought of the detective regressing back into her old habits. What if it’s Lexi’s fault? What if she drove Bennett off last night to the point where she felt like she needed to drink? She should never have opened up. Bennett didn’t need the added stress of hearing about Lexi’s personal life. If it turns out she’s the reason Bennett relapsed, she could never forgive herself.

_Lexi: Can we meet later at my place? Need to talk to you about something._

_Bennett: yuppers_

“Yuppers”? Goddammit, this is _serious_. Why does Bennett have to be so damn adorable without even trying? Doesn’t she know how much harder it makes things?

* * *

“Ouch!”

Waving the stinging pain from her finger, Lexi quickly searches for another bandaid around before any blood wells up. Just the sight of the small blot makes her a little nauseous. An FBI agent who’s afraid of blood—what a complete joke she has become.

She’s been picking at her cuticles all day in anticipation of tonight’s mini-intervention, her stress worsening as scenarios run through her head. None of them end well. Worst of all, Bennett could indeed be relapsing. Or she could get angry at Lexi just for asking, feeling that Lexi somehow doesn’t trust her. And she’d have a point. What if Lexi’s violating their trust by raising the issue in the first place?

Even though she knows it’s not really her business whether Bennett drinks or not, Lexi still has to go through with this because she cares too much—about everything, but especially about Bennett. They’re getting so close, both emotionally and physically, that the line between partner and _something else_ no longer exists. Her attraction to the detective has been a foregone conclusion for a while now. It’s far past the panic phase she was initially mired in and far beyond what she’s ever felt for anyone before.

And that’s why Lexi’s scared. Fucking terrified. She’s scared that she caught feelings for an alcoholic who may be actively relapsing. She’s scared that it’s her fault. She’s scared because she’s willingly putting herself out there to get hurt.

It would be easier, safer, to cut her losses and run. It’d save her a lot of heartache in the process. So with all of this in mind, she’s going to forge ahead. Even if Bennett doesn’t want to help herself, or if she loses Bennett in the process, Lexi will keep fighting to make sure Bennett’s okay.

* * *

Lexi thought she was prepared, but when she swings open her door and sees Bennett all of her courage seems to dissolve. The detective always has a way of making Lexi weak in the knees and fuzzy in the head.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

At least Bennett looks a little better off then she did this morning. She’s wearing fresh clothes and the bags under her eyes have lightened. She also seems to have settled down a bit, giving off a calmer presence than her earlier manic energy.

“Can I come in?”

“Sorry, yeah,” Lexi mumbles as she steps aside.

Bennett steps inside and shuffles on her feet. “I made sure I wasn’t followed. Even took the bus.”

If Bennett’s really drinking again, how can Lexi be sure the detective is actually being followed? What if her paranoia is some liquored-up delusion? Immediately after the thought crosses her mind she silently chastises herself for it. Her friend could be in imminent danger and all Lexi can think about is her credibility? See, this is why alcohol sucks: for the distrust it breeds, the wedge it drives between two people who shouldn’t have to question each other’s veracity.

“So,” Bennett continues as she stuffs her hands deep in the pockets of her trench coat. “You wanted to see me?”

It’d be so easy to deflect to something else and dodge the dicey confrontation ahead. But she can’t be a coward and take the easy way out. Not when it comes to Bennett. As long as Bennett’s healthy, even if she hates Lexi, that would be a worthy trade-off.

_Now or never._

“Are you drinking again?” Lexi has to spit her words out before she loses the nerve to say them.

It’s clearly not a prompt that Bennett was expecting. “Am I drinking again?” she repeats back to try and process what Lexi just said.

Though Bennett looks crushed by the question Lexi stands her ground. “You snuck out last night, show up to breakfast this morning acting weird and looking… rough. I’m not trying to attack you or anything like that. I just want to know if you’re okay.”

Bennett has a funny expression on her face, though Lexi can’t tell if it’s fear or anger. She can feel the regret welling up on her. Another misguided attempt to help, gone wrong. Typical.

The silence between them is tense again, both waiting for the other to speak. Finally a new look surfaces on Bennett’s face: hurt. A shadow falls over her features as she speaks again. “You want to know what happened that night, huh? God’s honest truth?”

Lexi nods even though she’s not sure if she wants to hear God’s honest truth.

Bennett looks to the floor and licks her lips. Even through the coat pockets Lexi can see the detective’s fingers tapping her palms again, obviously stressed to discuss this subject. “I wanted to,” Bennett begins. “To drink, I mean. I got freaked out about my whole situation and also Jules for some reason and I wanted to drink so fucking bad. And I almost went through with it. But... something happened.”

_Rue stared through the glass door, the liquor neatly arrayed on a whole wall of shelves before her. Then she looked down at her hand, which had moved on its own to the doorknob. She wanted that taste again, more than almost anything. But as badly as she wanted that drink, she couldn’t. It wasn’t because she was stronger than the impulse. It was because she had ruined her life once, and she didn’t have the strength to live through that again. Curling her hand into a fist, she dropped it to the side with a quivering breath. She had to turn her back to the door since the very sight of the bottles was enough to make her dizzy with want. And then she kept heading in the direction of home._

"And that’s the truth. I swear it.” Bennett’s eyes bore into Lexi, begging her to understand. “You know I wouldn’t lie to you, right? Especially about this.”

That’s the million dollar question—would Bennett lie about relapsing?

Based on her past experience with addicts, Lexi would assume yes. She’s heard the lies for her entire life: “It was just it mistake, a one-time deal!” “If I really wanted to I’d stop.” “I have it under control.” Unfortunately, as an addict Bennett may very well practice deception in order to sustain her habits. If it were anyone else in this situation Lexi wouldn’t trust them.

But this is Bennett, which completely changes the equation. Bennett’s not just the ex-partner or the crush or cop or addict or any other neat categorization. She means so much more than any of those labels can define. This is the person who somehow convinced Lexi to share her sordid family history, jumped between Lexi and a stun gun, cared for Lexi at her most vulnerable.

So no, Bennett isn’t “anyone else.” She’s “something else.” She’s someone Lexi cares for deeply, enough to put herself out there and risk getting hurt by the detective. It’s not the easy choice to trust Rue Bennett, but it’s the right one.

“I know. I believe you.”

Bennett blinks quickly, shoulders dropping from a tensed stance. She had been coiled and ready to argue her case but unprepared for her word to be taken at face value. “That’s it? Just like that?”

“I trust you.” No questioning. No second guesses. Lexi doesn’t need it when she has Bennett’s word.

“But _why_?” Bennett sputters, unable to understand as she takes a step closer to Lexi.

“Because I believe in you. You’re a good person.”

Bennett’s utterly dumbfounded. It’s clear that she hasn’t heard this very often, maybe ever, and that she doubts it herself. “You’re not joking, are you?” she says like she’s trying to convince herself of it. “You really do believe in me.”

Bennett steps forward again, staring Lexi down with a clear-eyed but unreadable glare like she’s been smacked with a gasp of sudden clarity. That makes one of them—something’s happening, but Lexi doesn’t know what.

So Lexi’s certainly blindsided when Bennett grabs her by the shoulders and kisses her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :P


	23. Face to Face (Part 2)

Rue’s a little impulsive by nature. Always has been. Regardless if it goes against the plan, mistake or not, if something feels right for the moment she goes with it.

It’s a timid kiss, five seconds max, and she surprises even herself by her move. But it’s enough time to confirm for Rue that this isn’t one of her mistakes.

The realization comes in a subtle way. Things just sort of… make sense when their lips meet. It’s just hard to process that it’s because of Howard. But the act itself feels so natural, like everything turbulent, confusing, agonizing about the last few weeks (hell, _months_ ) clicks into place and settles. Her heart’s not aching and her head’s not spinning out of control. Because this is safe. She’s finally found center, and it lies with Howard.

However, when it’s over and Rue draws back she realizes that, based on her expression, their kiss may have broken her partner. Completely frozen and eyes wide as saucers, she hasn’t moved a twitch since Rue planted one on her.

“Was that a bad idea?” Rue asks for Howard’s sake. “I didn’t mean to spring that on you but maybe it wasn’t totally out of nowhere—.”

Rue doesn’t have the chance to finish her thought. Suddenly Howard’s surging forward and backing her into the wall, grasping the nape of Rue’s neck. Though their position is claustrophobic Rue doesn’t even notice, captured and captivated by the agent’s almost carnal tenacity as they kiss again. It’s not the kind of slow and certain embrace you’d see in a movie’s grand climax; it’s eager and frantic, a bit sloppy and fully natural, and unfolding very, very quickly.

Howard’s hands leave a trail of electricity as they move down Rue’s shoulders, slipping under the collar of her shirt to feel her collarbone. Recalling the alluring sight of Howard’s bare midriff, she’s unable to help herself as her hands slide down the curve of Howard’s torso. She wasn’t expecting, but isn’t bothered by, her partner’s sudden assertiveness, almost like she’s releasing weeks of want and restraint that Rue hadn’t noticed before.

When they eventually pull away Howard keeps her eyes closed several seconds longer than Rue. There’s a relieved smile on her lips, which are lightly smeared with her light red lipstick. But when reality hits the relief is wiped from her face, replaced by sheer panic that drains her of color. She takes a step back, eyes darting around. “I, I… Uh—who wants water? I do. I’m gonna get some.” Then she turns on her heels and disappears into the next room, her arms stiff at her side as she flees.

_What the fuck?_

As soon as Rue shakes off the stupor and finds her voice, she picks up her feet and trails Howard into the kitchen. The agent’s braced against the counter, apparently struggling to process what just went down.

“You good?”

Howard looks at Rue and then the floor, heaves an audibly shaky breath. “Was that, like, really weird and uncomfortable for you?”

“No, not really.”

Howard pushes herself off of the counter and holds her hands against the back of her head. “I just ruined—We were good and then—oh shit. God, you’re so fucking stupid, Lex. What’s wrong with you? Why are you such a screw-up?”

Howard’s words ripple through Rue, the brief glimpse into the self-abuse enough to break Rue’s heart. “Whoa, hey. I know this sounds ironic coming from me, but you might be overthinking this.”

“How are you not freaking out right now?”

“You don’t think I’m kind of freaking out a little bit too? Cus this definitely wasn’t part of my plan.”

“Well it wasn’t part of my plan either. It’s not like I lured you over here so that… Oh my god, I pictured this playing out so many times—.”

She stops herself, eyes wide. Clearly that last admission was an accident. Rue must look sufficiently confused, because Howard’s eyes drop in shame and she tosses her hands up in utter defeat. Meanwhile Rue’s standing there dumbly, her jaw bobbing up and down while she comes up empty. Howard’s drowning over here—she really should say something.

“Really?”

_That’s the best you could come up with?_

Howard laughs dryly. “Yeah. Really. And it’s fucking pathetic because I knew you were never gonna see me like that and I’m so sorry—.” She tilts her head back to prevent any tears from spilling out, but she’s still betrayed by her cracking voice. “Before tonight would you have wanted to kiss me?” she finally asks. “Honestly?”

In retrospect, Rue can say with certainty that kissing Howard was a good move. But honestly? The idea hadn’t occurred to her until it was already happening. She had known she was interested in Howard, but the specific nature of said interest was still unclear until a moment ago.

Before she can reply Howard already sees the answer on her face. “That’s what I thought,” she moans as she presses her hands against her forehead and leans against the counter.

“Calm down woman,” Rue allays with a light laugh. She looks into Howard’s watery eyes and tries to find the right words to calm the agent. But Rue’s not always good with words. She’s a woman of action anyway. “Let’s just… Here, let’s try something.”

She boosts Howard up so that she’s sitting on the counter, the partners now eye-to-eye. Then Rue’s hands instinctively move up to cradle the sides of Howard’s face, thumbs rubbing soothing patterns against her cheeks.

The first kiss was shy, the second eager. The third is slow and savored, communicating the affirmation to Howard that Rue can’t otherwise provide. As they revel in the moment the world fades to the back once again, replaced by the taste of each other, the feel of their hearts racing against their chests, the smell of the agent’s peach body mist, the sound of tempered breathing.

When they draw back from the kiss Howard takes Rue’s hands in hers, removing them from her face while still holding them tightly. Howard’s eyes are still stormy, conflicted as always, this time between surrender and self-denial.

“What’s wrong?”

The answer doesn’t come easily to Howard, who just rests her forehead against Rue’s and releases a shaky breath.

Though it’s easier for Rue to understand what’s going on, having been in a similar situation once before, this is still uncharted territory in some aspects. Still, when her therapist told her to take a risk with a leap of faith she didn’t expect to land here.

Maybe she’s totally out of her depth. Howard’s already done so much for her. How can she ever measure up? She wants desperately to lift Howard up, to protect and affirm her. But it’s hard to imagine helping Howard with either if Rue can’t sustain those feelings for herself.

Howard searches Rue’s eyes for further assurance, so Rue gives their interlocked hands a little squeeze. “You wanna get more comfortable?”

* * *

Lexi has decided this isn’t reality. There’s no way she isn’t fever dreaming right now. Or maybe it’s a hallucination and she’s in a medically induced coma. Or she’s still trapped in hell and this is elaborate torture. It’s easier for her to wrap her head around any of those scenarios than to believe her current predicament.

She’d imagined it more often than she’d care to admit: the moment where she finally summons the courage to make her move and she’s not immediately and pathetically shot down. But not even in her wildest imagination did she see it playing out like _this_ —Bennett made the first move and Lexi lost control, passion and the tenderness so effortlessly mixed and terrifyingly easy.

It was all too good to be true. Which is why there’s no way it really happened. Or is still happening.

So Bennett’s a cuddler. That’s… nice to know. It’s not usually Lexi’s thing, but she’s starved for physical contact. She hadn’t realized this until Bennett nuzzled up against her on the couch, arms wrapped around Lexi’s midsection and Lexi’s head in the crook of Bennett’s neck. Lexi’s heart kept racing for too long, exhilarated by the closeness, though Bennett mercifully didn’t comment. And Lexi didn’t comment either, because she could feel that Bennett’s heart was also racing.

Lexi’s half asleep now, relaxed in Bennett’s arms. _The Joy of Painting_ is on somewhere in the background. Neither of them are paying attention to it. She doesn’t know what time it is, which is fine because time doesn’t exist right now anyway. Time slowed when Bennett kissed her, and then screeched to a halt when they finally closed that “platonic gap.” She’s struggling to spin a deep metaphor to describe this situation, something about gravity or magnetism, but her brain’s too fuzzy with endorphins to come up with anything profound.

“I wish this were real,” she sighs contentedly, her voice sounding dreamlike and unfamiliar to her.

Bennett hums groggily, and the warmth of the breath against Lexi’s neck sends tingles down her back.

The detective left her mark all over Lexi tonight. She can still feel the warmth of Bennett’s lips from when they kissed, and the firm grip of Bennett’s hands from when she held Lexi’s hips against her. Bennett’s present hold has an entirely different charge, soothing the overwhelming angst Lexi felt after she and Bennett finally kissed.

The stress, the sorrow, the shame—it wasn’t vanquished, but it feels a little more bearable right now. Whether purposefully or by instinct, Bennett always comforts when Lexi needs it most.

Lexi never considered comfort essential. It’s more of a convenience to be gained by people who deserve it. And she definitely didn’t think she deserved such indulgence. It wasn’t until she landed in Bennett’s embrace that she conceded the truth. She likes to be comforted. And she needs it too, no matter how hard she tries to pretend she doesn’t.

She thought Bennett fell asleep a while ago, and she was about to drift off too when her partner breaks the peaceful quiet.

“Why?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t get it.” Bennett’s voice is a gravelly mumble deepened by sleepiness, but it’s clear that she’s deep in her own thoughts.

Lexi’s too tired and frazzled to decipher Bennett’s ambiguity on her own. “What don’t you get?”

“Just... Why look at me and think ‘yes, this person. That’s who I want’?”

Lexi could write a thesis on that question, having spent hours meditating on it. It’s both obvious and complicated, the physical and emotional motivations so immense and overwhelming. But even after writing a whole thesis she still wouldn’t be able to capture the depth of her feelings for Bennett. Mere words can’t do justice when it’s unquantifiable.

“When you know you know.” Surely Bennett can understand this reasoning, having once been in love herself.

“But it’s just... I don’t see it.” Bennett sits up a little bit, apparently restless. “You keep saying you trust me, you believe in me, I’m a good person… Do you know how many times I’ve heard that in my life? I could count on one hand. My family doesn’t even think that. Makes me feel like you don’t know me.”

“Do _you_ know you?”

“Don’t start profiling me, Howard.”

Lexi huffs, curling further into and wrapping her arms around Bennett until they’re intertwined. “Maybe we can try using our first names now?”

“What? No, that’s like our thing. Bennett and Howard! Howard and Bennett! The dynamic duo.”

“Yeah,” Lexi mumbles, “but it’s super androgynous for two women who just made out.”

Another few minutes of quiet nearly lulls Lexi back to sleep before Bennett starts talking again, having stirred herself awake with their conversation. “So if I hadn’t made a move first, would you ever have said anything to me?”

“Probably not.” As in, definitely not. Lexi’s no Icarus. She’d rather not take a good thing for granted and screw it all up by flying too close to the sun.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to take the risk of making things weird with us.”

“But you’re the one who’s always saying to ‘follow the ribbon,’ ‘hope for the best’.”

“It’s not that simple.” Lexi leans up to try and face Bennett, who’s furrowing her brow thoughtfully. “I was scared. It would’ve been better to not mess anything up, than risk it and end up driving you off.”

“Well maybe I wouldn’t have shot you down.”

“You didn’t see me in that way until like an hour ago. You said it yourself.”

“Look,” Bennett sighs, “you know I’m not always the most observant. My brain just works slower when it comes to certain stuff.”

Lexi nudges her head back into the crook of Bennett’s neck. She can finally name the fear that’s lurking in the back of her mind. She cares so much it hurts. The way she gets so attached almost begs for her heart to be broken. But she wants to believe that this is safe, that this time she doesn’t need to keep it bottled up.

“I don’t have a lot of good things in my life anymore. You’re one of them. I don’t want to lose you.”

Bennett doesn’t rush to respond, rubbing soothing circles into Lexi’s back as she thinks. “That’s not gonna that happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if there are any ideas or prompts for convos you’d like to see in the coming chapters.
> 
> Also shout out to anyone who caught the Bob Ross reference! Happy spooktober


	24. The Hunter

“Remember son: don’t pull the trigger, slowly squeeze it. Nice and easy.”

Nate exhaled, body rigid at he took aim at the gray wolf digging passively into the snow 200 yards away.

Hunting wolves wasn’t cheap, as his father often reminded him, or a hobby for lightweights. It was an intense test of body and mind. So if Nate wanted to prove his mettle to Cal, now was the chance.

Every year the elder Jacobs made his pilgrimage to Wyoming, one of the few states that allowed the species to be hunted. Nate had just turned ten, and this was the first year he and his older brother, Aaron, were allowed to go as well. As they tracked for signs of wolves, their father lectured them on the importance of identifying the patterns and vulnerabilities of one’s prey. Wolf hunting, and indeed any worthy pursuit, requires discipline, resilience, intelligence and instinct, values that Cal Jacobs prized and espoused as often as possible.

So far Nate didn’t see the virtue. In fact, he found the whole thing miserable. They’d been out in the freezing cold since before the sun had risen, and little Nate was chilled to the bone despite wearing four layers of clothes. His rubber boots quickly filled with snow, soaking his socks and numbing his feet while they marched deep into the wilderness. Then they sat in the brush for hours, waiting and waiting in absolute silence.

He was exhausted, and was about to join Aaron in nodding off when Cal shook them awake. “Look boys, see her on the ridge over yonder?” Then he unslung his gun from his shoulder and handed it to Nate. “Go ahead. Take the shot.”

Nate had been taught how to shoot a rifle before, but this was different. There was an actual living, breathing creature within his aim. The idea of harming the beautiful broad-shouldered beast, resembling a larger version of their family’s dog, secretly wracked him with guilt.

But that wasn’t something he could let himself feel right now, not when Cal expected him to prove himself. He pushed away the inner conflict and, as he’d practiced many times, he squeezed the trigger. His target dropped. The gun’s kick left a bruise in the skin of his shoulder that wouldn’t heal for weeks.

They crossed the ridge to claim the trophy, but when they drew close they realized Nate made a mistake. Instead of hitting the heart or lungs he had hit the wolf’s lower back, a mortal wound but not instantly fatal. It lay prone on the ground, growling and wincing as it bled into the snow. Nate couldn’t stand the sight of such a beautiful animal rendered helpless, especially when it was his fault.

“We have to get it help!”

“Boys, look her in the eyes.”

Nate looked down at the whimpering beast, and it looked straight back at him with cloudy copper eyes. Its lips curled, feigning ferocity even in its injured state.

Cal turned to Nate, placing a guiding hand on his bruising shoulder. “Take off your gloves for me.”

Hesitantly, Nate pulled his gloves off. Then Cal placed a revolver into Nate’s hands.

“Now you need to finish what you started.”

“No! He have to try to help it—.”

“She’s going to die before any kind of help could reach us. Until then she’s going to lie here, suffering. What you’re doing is showing mercy.”

He could feel hot tears building behind his eyes, but he knew the consequences of crying in front of his father. “I don’t want to.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“Can Aaron do it?”

Aaron tugged desperately at Cal’s sleeve. “I can do it! If he won’t I will!”

“This is Nathaniel’s trophy. He has to be the one.” He turned to Nate, squeezing his sore shoulder reassuringly. “Go on, son. Ready stance, just like we practiced.”

He looked down at his trophy and tried to block out the sound of pained whimpering. This time he couldn’t stop the tears from falling out of his eyes. Silently, he apologized to the wounded animal for the suffering he’d already inflicted, and for what he was about to do. Then he squeezed the trigger. The whimpering stopped, replaced by ominous silence except for the distant echoing of the gunshot.

Shooting a target from 200 yards was hard enough. Shooting from point blank range, watching the bullet puncture that silvery pelt and seeing its eyes go black, manifested in him the worst feeling of his life up to that point.

As Nate stared at his victim Cal bent down and dabbed his fingers on the fatal wound. “Nate, it’s a rite of passage among hunters to smear the blood of your first kill on your face.”

He rubbed the blood into Nate’s skin like war paint—across his forehead and over the tear-stained pink cheeks. “And God said, ‘Let us make man in our image: and let them have dominion over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that crawl upon the earth’.” Then Cal smiled at him, a display of pride from his father that was foreign to Nate. “Today you’re a man, Nathaniel. A warrior.”

* * *

Memories work in funny ways. All it takes is one specific sight, smell or sound, and a dusty old file is yanked from the archive behind the frontal lobe and shoved into your conscience.

For Nate, it doesn’t take much reminding to trigger his near-photographic memory. All it takes is a view through crosshairs.

Nate peers through the spotting scope, watching for signs of life in Bennett’s apartment. No lights are on, no movement inside. She’s probably still at work. That’s all she ever does, anyway. If he really wanted to keep track of her he’d get a job at the precinct as a custodian. That’s far too risky a plan, which is why he’s having to get creative with his tracking. The whole point of renting the apartment across the street from Bennett was to monitor the detective’s movement, but what’s the point if she never goes home?

He heads downstairs to his truck and speeds off in the direction of the precinct, his mind trying to analyze every facet of the present circumstances. If he’s taken the right precautions, the most damning evidence will have disappeared before it ever reached the detective’s desk. Even with this knowledge the idea of a possible vulnerability haunts him. For a good detective like Bennett, a few pieces of key information is all she needs. The moment she figures this out everything Nate’s built will come crumbling down.

That’s why Nate’s not waiting for her to find him. He’s taking the fight to her, and he’s going to beat her. Because Bennett has vulnerabilities too. In fact, Bennett’s already done most of the work for him. Nobody in her department takes her seriously after her breakdown. The best strategy, as he sees it, is to finally and thoroughly destroy any trace of her credibility.

Bennett’s car is the only one in the precinct’s parking lot, and it looks like the lights are on on her floor. That’s as much of a confirmation as he can get. Though it’s too risky to gain access inside, he’d be fascinated to see for himself everything she has on him. How close she’s getting. How much time he has to stop her.

Having confirmed Bennett’s whereabouts, he considers paying a quick visit to a certain FBI agent’s apartment then opts against it. It doesn’t mean he isn’t concerned about Agent Howard, or that he doesn’t consider her dangerous. But she poses a set of problems inherently different from the detective. The agent is simply a tool to be used by whoever has authority over her. Right now that’s a good thing, because as long as the FBI’s sold on Tyler Clarkson, she’ll go along with her superiors and follow orders. But it also means she’s easily controlled, and depending on who has her ear, she could end up causing even more problems for him than Bennett.

Should the need arise he knows how to stop the agent just as easily as the detective. Her past is her greatest vulnerability, as evidenced by the efforts she’s taken to try and bury it. But Nate’s smarter, stronger and more resourceful than her. Agent Howard is mentally weak.

Hunter and prey. The weak living at the will of the strong. By breaking down the agent and detective, Nate’s just perpetuating the natural order. In this regard it’s no different than The Final Act—he’s restoring proper balance, correcting imperfections.


	25. Under Covers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to part 3. Thank you for making it this far!

_Cool evening air. Wet grass. In tonight’s variation she’s blinded by flashing red and blue lights so that it’s nearly impossible to see around her. But Lexi doesn’t need to see—she still recognizes the dreamscape instantly, this particular setting branded into her psyche after two years worth of dreams._

_Something equal parts pungent and ominous hangs in the air, a sickening metallic smell that makes her skin burn and itch. She looks down at her hands and dark red stains spread across her arms, chased by black tendrils which seize her and pull her down. She tries to yank herself from its grasp, but it only grows stronger. The ground opens up to below her, the tendrils pulling her into the ground until she’s being swallowed by the earth and sealed underneath. Pop! Pop! Po—_

“NO!”

Lexi doesn’t hear her own yelp as she jolts upright. Through gulps of air she looks closely at her arms, then runs her hands over her skin—no blood, no itching or burning, no tendrils. As always, it takes her head a moment to adjust back to the real world. Just a bad dream. She’s safe. Still breathing. Everything’s fine and even if it wasn’t, Bennett’s right here.

Slightly relieved, she huffs and wipes her sweat-slicked hands on her pajama shorts. Lexi tries not to wake Bennett as she crawls out of bed and tiptoes to the bathroom.

Except Rue’s already awake.

Howard’s had at least five nightmares in the last fifteen days. Rue knows this because they’ve spent almost every night together since their little breakthrough a couple weeks ago. If they weren’t “taking it slow” she might even ask what’s going on, though she knows Howard wouldn’t give her a straight answer. Truth is, Rue’s dying to know.

* * *

Making a breakfast for herself has never been a consistent part of Rue’s morning routine. Howard wasn’t happy when she found out: “That’s why you’re tired all day. Your body’s not getting enough fuel.” Thus, Howard makes her breakfast every morning. It’s certainly one perk of crashing with the agent.

Rue rests her head on the kitchen counter and watches Howard vigorously whisk egg yolks for omelets, the Thursday special. This is how their mornings usually go before Rue’s woken up by her first cup of coffee: watching Howard make her breakfast, taking in the view while her brain turns on like an old computer. First, it’s a nice chance to enjoy each other’s quiet presence before the day officially starts and the rest of life gets in the way. And second, watching Howard cook is frankly fascinating, worthy of David Attenborough's narration. (Except for when Howard notices Rue staring. Then she gets all stiff and quiet like she’s afraid of Rue watching her).

Howard crouches right over the pan with a fork and a spatula, trying to flip a three-egg omelet without breaking it. She curses under her breath when it starts to unfold.

“How’d you sleep?” Rue finally asks.

Howard twitches a smile at the sound of Rue’s voice. “Fine,” she states concisely as she stands up straight. They both know it’s a lie, and per usual, they sidestep potential confrontation in favor of a lighter topic.

Such deep discussions aren’t explicitly off the table. It’s not like the two of them sat down and mapped out a list of subjects to avoid: exes, family, vices and failures, etc. etc. But in the interest of “taking it slow,” per their mutual agreement, it’s easiest to avoid such fraught conversations entirely. That’s unfortunate or convenient, depending on how you look at it, but it’s what the present circumstances demand. Between the case and their personal problems there’s too much going on to deepen things further. It’s just too overwhelming to tackle all the complications of a serious relationship on top of everything else. And that’s fine, because Rue and Lexi are casual people. Sort of. Not really.

Howard slides a plate of eggs and toast onto the counter, along with a glass of water instead of coffee. “You’re not gonna serve this to me in a coffee cup?” Rue teases as she swirls the clear liquid around.

“I’ve only seen you drink water twice since we met. Literally twice. It’s concerning.”

Howard worries a lot. At first Rue thought it was a feature of the agent's work style, but she’s learning that it applies to most everything Howard cares about. She’s always fretting over little things like the quality of Rue’s sleep and diet, or if she’s keeping herself safe and off the radar. Especially that last one. It’s mostly reassuring, sometimes a little exhausting, and cute in a uniquely Lexi way.

Rue worries too, about the Strangler and her stalker of course, but more than those two things. She worries if Howard’s really functioning as well as she pretends. She worries that she’s leeching off of someone’s good graces and isn’t doing enough in return. She worries that once the novelty of their “partnership” has worn off, Howard will follow Jules out the door and Rue will be back where she was just a few months ago.

But right now’s not the time to worry. She can save that for her bus ride to work (it's not ideal, but it's harder to track than her car).

Howard grabs a cereal bar for her own breakfast. Before they go their separate ways for the day they say goodbye with a quick peck on the lips, an accidental gesture that has all too easily evolved into an unconscious habit for them.

* * *

Rue has a roster full of witnesses being intimidated into obstruction, no solid evidence of Tyler’s Clarkson’s innocence, and zero leads on the Stranger’s real identity. If that weren’t frustrating enough, no one, not even Howard, believes Tyler might actually be innocent. And time’s running out to prove them wrong.

She stands in front of her Drawing Board and tries to make some sense out of her work. Every time she looks at the board she sees something different, like her brain keeps rearranging the content so that she doesn’t recognize the progress she’s supposedly making. Frustrated, she pulls out her phone to check if the agent has texted her—nothing. Going on four hours now since they last talked. It’s hard to focus these days, and Rue blames Howard.

Howard’s still dealing with... Rue doesn’t know what, but there’s something Howard’s hiding from her. Which is a little unfair, by the way. Howard knows pretty much everything there is to know about Rue: the good, the bad, the ugly. And yes, Rue does know a lot about Howard —her personality, her temperament, her habits, fears and quirks. At the same time Rue knows nothing, because Howard’s very adept at leaving the most important information unsaid. Whatever still haunts her is clearly off-limits to discuss, an unanswered question, the kind that doesn’t sit right with Rue.

Lexi Howard. Special Agent Howard. _Senior_ Special Agent Howard. The iterations of the name just keep rolling around in Rue’s head. She types the agent’s name along with “FBI” into Google, and her finger hovers over the enter key. Unfortunately her morality intervenes: she promised the agent she wouldn’t “research” her.

That was on the way to their first crime scene together, which feels like ancient history at this point. So Rue types in another prompt: _is it still wrong to break a promise if the other person doesn’t remember?_ According to the internet, the answer is yes. Damn it.

Howard may not even remember their agreement, considering how long ago it was, but that doesn’t mean Rue can break the promise. Not when it would violate the trust of the one person who still believes in her.

She feels her phone buzzing in her pocket and grabs it, expecting Howard. Nope, just Hernandez from forensics. Though she’s been waiting to hear back from Kat, she’s still a little disappointed that it’s not a Lexi text. Hopefully her analyst at least has some good news.

“Yo. How’s the project coming?”

“Most of them were easy to access,” Hernandez replies as she types something in her computer. “Took a little more work with a few of the cameras, but I found cookie values in the IP histories and cracked the logins.”

“So basically you got videos for me?”

“Yup. 24/7 camera footage still in all the systems. Check it out.”

Rue leans in next to Kat as Kat pulls up a window full of video clips. Rue squints at the monitor, eyeing the grainy street footage. “Wow, this is some real shady shit.” She points to a frame in the lower right corner of the window marked _Northside Auto, 22:00, August 12._ “Can you click on that video?”

This clip opens up to a dark semi-deserted street. A car passes through the frame, which Rue recognizes as Tyler Clarkson’s car. She keeps watching closely, counting seconds that pass too slowly.

“There, right there! See that Buick? Can you, like, enhance the image or something?”

“Well it’s CCTV, not CSI. So... no.”

“But we have more clips like this? From the locations and timeframes I gave you?”

“What’s this for again?” Hernandez asks with a frown.

“It’s just a little pet project,” Rue states vaguely. “You’re keeping this between us though, right? You’re not telling anyone?”

“Who am I gonna tell? This is technically illegal since we don’t have a warrant.”

Rue ignores the implied judgment. “Can I spend a few minutes playing around with this?”

“Knock yourself out,” Hernandez sighs, yielding her desk chair.

All Rue needs is one clip proving that Tyler Clarkson wasn’t at a victim’s scene. More importantly, if she can link a vehicle from one of these videos to the suspicious car on her street, she can finally earn some confirmation that she’s not imagining the threat against her. The longer she watches the faster her thoughts race, new theories careening around in her head catalyzed by the footage she just saw. There has to be something more here, right? Or is Rue just letting her imagination get out of control?

Twelve clips. Five hours of footage later, Rue’s culled twelve clips of a brown sedan trailing Tyler’s car. Unfortunately she doesn’t remember stats class well enough to guess the probability of this occurring, but the cars in most of the clips resemble a Buick model. A small foothold, but still not enough for a legitimate argument. She needs more.

She turns away from the monitor and rubs the palm of her hand in her forehead. Staring at screens for too long always gives her a tension headache. If Howard were here she’d tell Rue not to push herself too hard.

She’ll just check in with the agent real quick. Casually. After all, It’s been nine hours and 35 minutes since they last spoke.

_Rue: howard._

Naturally Howard answers within five minutes. She never leaves Rue hanging.

_Lexi: Hi. Are you ok?_

_Rue: yes. just wanted to hear from you so.. hey stranger_

_Rue: miss seeing you at the precinct_

_Lexi: I’d come visit if it wasn’t technically banned. Remember when us working together was a requirement and not a covert op?_

_Rue: remember when I refused to talk to you for a couple weeks because I didn’t want a partner_

_Lexi: Yeah that was great to work with._

_Rue: lol ya. took me too long to come around_

_Lexi: Better late than never :)_

_Rue: also I’m gonna crash with you again tonight thanksssss_

_Lexi: Might be a little late getting home, I still have some work to finish this evening. Spare key’s hidden behind the fake fire alarm in the hall._

Lexi reads back through the conversation that just transpired, grinning and blushing like crazy. These kinds of positive emotions are considered taboo to display on public transit, but her public appearance is the last thing she’s concerned about these days.

Her stop’s coming up soon. She pulls the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, slips on her glasses and slings her backpack over her shoulder. It’s not her usual style, which is the point when you don’t want to be recognized.

The evening light’s starting to fade as Lexi steps off the bus. Always hyper aware of lurking danger, she surveys her surroundings for potential threats. Fortunately this street is off the main roads, so there’s not a lot of foot traffic. No one to see her dip into the alley toward a rickety old fire escape.

The best vantage point is a six-story complex three lots down from the corner, where Lexi can survey the whole block for activity. With a little hop and one hundred percent of her core strength she hoists herself up onto the escape and climbs to the roof. Once she’s in position she pulls her camera out of her bag and adjusts the zoom lens to focus on the street.

As usual there are no suspicious persons or vehicles lingering down below. Everything appears normal, just like the last few times she’s surveilled Bennett’s block.

She doesn’t know what she’s looking for. There might not be anything _to_ look for. This could all be borne out of Bennett’s overactive imagination.

That older man with the long beard is smoking on the sidewalk again. She’s seen him several times now, and he stands out since nothing else seems to be happening in contrast. She focuses her zoom and snaps a photo of the chain smoker.

My god, this is all so sketchy. And probably unethical. It has to violate some kind of protocol. But she doesn’t have a choice. If Bennett’s right, and there really is someone out there who wants to hurt one or both of them, Lexi doesn’t want to find out the hard way. Neither of them can end up like Mara Kemp.

Maybe she’s adapting to the demands of her situation. Maybe she’s simply trying to make sense out of the utter chaos around her. Mostly likely, she’s doing this because she can’t tolerate the idea of allowing someone she loves to get hurt. The case is personal now. Compartmentalization, which she had adopted as a standard practice for years, is no longer an option. She can’t neatly divvy up her personal and professional worlds.

That’s what scares her. The last time these worlds collided it ruined her life.

There’s a brown car parking on the street—not a Buick, just an Acura. Lexi snaps a picture of the plate anyway. Collecting information from people without probable cause is definitely unethical.

She sets her camera down, leans back from her post and sighs. _At least the sunset looks nice from here._ How long has it been since she even noticed a sunset? It’s like she’s seeing the world in color again.

Her phone chimes again. “Speak of the devil…”

_Bennett: which do you like more peanut butter or chocolate_

_Lexi: ???_

_Bennett: just pick one_

_Lexi: Chocolate I guess_

A simple text is always enough to make Lexi melt. Bennett still has her wrapped around her long finger. Lexi can’t fault herself for that anymore, because how could you _not_ fall for Bennett? She’s absolutely remarkable. There’s no one like her on the planet and Lexi’s sure of it. Everyday she learns something new about Bennett and only wants her more badly because of it.

Now the difficult part to accept is that Bennett’s interested in her too. It’s still hard for Lexi to get that through her thick skull, and has been since they first kissed. But on some level, it’s true. The detective certainly hasn’t left any doubt about that. Every kiss, every touch, is imbued with mutual desire.

Thank god they’re taking it slow. It’s a smart choice even if it’s torturous.

She and Bennett might even be good for each other. Is that such a crazy idea? Bennett _has_ seemed calmer when they spend time together. Obviously Lexi can’t take complete credit, but she knows how to handle these kinds of things given her family’s history. Surely she’s somehow a little helpful to Bennett’s improvement. At the very least she’s not hurting Bennett (at least she thinks she isn’t).

And Bennett’s good for Lexi too. For the last two years she’s been essentially numb to the world and to herself, living in a fog. Now she’s regaining her sense of reality, re-remembering the little things she’s lost touch with. The good, like sunsets, but also the bad. Some pain is still fresh, and there are certain things she’s still not ready to grapple. But it’s worth it, a fair price for her and Bennett’s new status. The partners are finally on the same page.

Except for the small fact that Bennett thinks this is casual, whereas Lexi’s fully in love. But it’s fine. Casual is fine.

That’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? Maybe they do “want” each other. That being said, Bennett doesn’t see Lexi on the same level as Jules. And that’s okay. Totally okay. Completely fine with her. She can live with that as long as Bennett’s still somehow in her life.

Eventually she gives up and yields her spot on the roof. She’ll be back soon to watch over the block again, but for now there’s no point in sitting around looking for nothing to happen. Not when Bennett’s waiting for her.

* * *

When Lexi arrives home the smoke alarm is going off and there’s a distinct smell of burning oil. “Bennett?” she calls from the doorway. “You here?”

“In the kitchen!”

Bennett’s busy over the stove, an unusual sight since cereal is the only meal she’s ever seen the detective prepare before. “I’m making you dinner," Bennett explains, recognizing Lexi's visible confusion.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Lexi replies with a smile. She takes a seat in Bennett’s usual spot on the counter.

“Here you go,” Bennett stammers and slides a plate in front of Lexi. She shifts her stance and crosses her arms tightly, her face etched with apprehension. “Breakfast for dinner. I even threw some chocolate in there.”

Lexi isn’t sure what’s on the plate in front of her, except that it’s burnt and unnaturally shaped. Is it a waffle? A burnt omelet? Mashed up hotdogs? Is it safe to eat?

But Bennett worked hard on it, and she’s visibly anxious for her reaction, so Lexi feigns excitement as she digs in.

Tasting the dish provides her no additional insight into what she might be eating. It’s rubbery but somehow also dry. She feels like the food is expanding in her mouth as she chews. “ _Mmm_ , so good,” Lexi lies through the mouthful of mystery food, giving her partner a hearty thumbs up.

Bennett’s instantly relieved by the feedback and cracks a broad smile. “Really? I wasn’t sure how it would turn out. Not exactly a Lumberjack Meal.”

“Thank you, Rue.” Lexi looks Bennett in the eye, forcing her attention. She wants Bennett to see the sincerity, to know that her effort is appreciated. The little things matter to Lexi, and she knows they matter to Bennett, too.

Despite being busier than ever, Lexi and Rue have managed to carve out an island of calm in their off-hours. It’s all uncharted of course, a routine that naturally fell into place with the breakfasts and the morning kisses and everything else that Lexi gets to do with and for Bennett.

Tonight Bennett turned on _Marriage Bootcamp_ (again), then promptly disappeared into her computer to scroll through some case files. Her head’s on Lexi’s lap while Lexi keeps nodding off, exhausted from so little sleep.

She hates that she hates going to bed, that it’s something to be dreaded even with Bennett at her side. The bad dreams come and go, but they’re especially intense right now, each one worse than the last. Lexi blames the case. A difficult assignment always takes her back to places she’d rather not revisit.

“Did you do anything interesting today?”

Lexi blinks quickly, Bennett’s question putting her on notice. She hasn’t told Bennett about her recent extracurricular surveillance. The detective would have questions and Lexi doesn’t have explanations. She doesn’t have any evidence yet, either, which would only discourage Bennett.

“No, not really. You?”

Bennett rolls her eyes up to think. “Nope. Nothing. Same old... paperwork and stuff.”

“Cool.”

Lexi closes her eyes, and Bennett watches the TV for a few seconds before piping up again. “Do you know where they’re keeping Tyler Clarkson?”

“Upstate. Some federal facility,” she mumbles. The Strangler is the last thing she wants to talk about right now.

Bennett nods and turns to the TV, pretending to watch the show. She peers at Lexi out of the corners of her eyes and then down at her lap.

Lexi knows that look. There's something on the detective's mind. “Spill.”

After hesitating for a moment, Bennett sits up and looks straight at her. “If you wanted to talk to Tyler would you be able to get access?”

“Probably.”

“If _I_ wanted to talk to him, would you be able to get _me_ access?”

Lexi rubs her eyes, itchy from exhaustion. “You didn’t make me dinner to bribe me for this, right?”

“No!” Bennett immediately refutes the notion. “I did that since – Well, you’ve been stressed out and you’re not sleeping well ‘cus of... I guess I thought you could use something homemade.”

“Okay.”

With another moment of silence Lexi almost nods off, then Bennett’s voice stirs her again. “But, y'know, with Tyler he’s probably only talked to people who don’t believe him. I’m thinking if I could get five, ten minutes with him, maybe he’d have something to share with me.”

Lexi takes a deep sigh and thinks about the protocol. “Visitors probably have to get approved by the ASAC.” 

“Hmm. Okay, it’s no biggie. I’ll figure something else out.” Bennett smiles at Lexi to assure her sincerity.

This is a moment where “no” is the only answer Lexi can give, and yet she still finds herself unable to say it. She’s never been good at saying no to someone she loves. And she genuinely wants to help if it’ll give Bennett some peace of mind.

“I’ll get you in with him.”

“Really, you don’t need to. It’s too risky.”

“No, I can do it.”

“How?”

“I’ll figure it out.” Lexi yawns, then rests her head on her hand. “We’ll make a little road trip out of it.”

“Come on, you need to go to bed.” Bennett gets up and yanks Lexi’s arm to follow.

Lexi is asleep before her head hits the pillow. She doesn’t feel Rue kiss her on the cheek and stroke her jaw. “Sweet dreams, Lex.”


	26. Getting Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry I took a week off. I had bad writer’s block, plus my job has gotten crazy busy with the election coming up.
> 
> Broke this little trip up so I guess you can consider this and the next one a two parter. It’s narrated in third person omniscient with some head-hopping. Also sorry if there’s any formatting errors as I’m posting this from my phone. I’ll go back and fix later.

Even when Lexi or Rue commit to something dumb, they still follow through. They have a kindred spirit of stubbornness. That is partly how they ended up here—headed for a federal prison, without clearance, and in spite of explicit non-cooperation orders.

They’ve been on the road for a few hours now, a trek than began before the sun rose and has stretched into mid morning. Rue’s driving (and DJing, of course) while Lexi stares out the window to avoid looking at the road. At least the tall blue sky and the mountains and farmlands sandwiching the 1 make for a pretty view, especially set to _Stankonia._

Rue flexes her hands on the steering wheel and glances to the passenger seat. Howard’s eyes are glazed over, a million miles away, and she has a tiny smile on the corners of her lips. The sight makes Rue’s chest flutter, something she’s been experiencing a lot lately and something she’s not entirely sure about yet. But she knows what it means when a person gives you butterflies, when you want to be around them just to soak up their presence, when they’re always on your mind in one way or another, when you care more about their problems than your own. Rue’s been here before, and this kind of déjà vu doesn’t give her much comfort.

What does give her comfort is the view of Howard’s profile at her right hand. Right now Howard looks surprisingly at ease herself, though Rue wonders if riding on the highway makes her nervous considering her dislike for vehicular travel. “All good over there?” she asks as she pokes Lexi’s shoulder.

“I’m getting hungry.”

“Of course you are.”

“Shut up.”

Lexi _is_ nervous, not because she’s in a car but because of where they’re going. Even if they were prepared, this little visit to the pen would still be a major gamble. She doesn’t even know what the proper procedure is here, much less how to get around it. But Lexi would bend over backwards to help Bennett, even if she doesn’t personally believe the detective’s right about Tyler’s innocence.

It’s a blessing and a curse, the way Lexi’s professional and personal lives are bleeding into each other. Without that fusion she wouldn’t have Bennett (not that she “has” Bennett, per se. Casual, remember?)

This is a dangerous position—Lexi knows it and feels it, but right now she’s happy, and she’s going to enjoy this and not dwell on the specter of consequences.

To break the monotony of the drive, and because they both need to get out of their heads, the partners try playing I Spy. If doesn’t take Lexi long to realize that playing observation games with the detective isn’t fun.

“I spy with my little eye something... blue.”

“The AC button on the dashboard.”

Lexi tosses her hands up in defeat. “How do you keep guessing it on the first try?”

“I’m just that good, Howard.”

“You’re cheating,” Lexi accuses as she shakes her head.

Rue shoots her an incredulous look. “How is it even possible to cheat at this game?”

“Whatever. Let’s play something else.”

“What about Never Have I Ever?”

“I thought that was a drinking game?”

“We’ll substitute.” Rue shakes the water bottle in the center console.

“Never have I ever…” Lexi scrunches her face to think for a moment, trying to come up with an original prompt. “Never have I ever broken a bone.”

Obviously Howard’s not lying, but Rue’s still surprised. “Really? How’d you manage that with roller derby?”

“Well I sprained my ankles about a dozen times. Never broke anything, though.”

Rue takes a sip. “When I was in high school I drove headfirst into a garage door. Broke my wrist in three places. There’s still a pin in my arm. Don’t drink and bike.”

“Damn. How much did you drink in high school?”

“More than I should have,” Rue admits vaguely. “High school wasn’t the best time for me.”

So Bennett’s problem with alcohol goes back further than Lexi originally thought. But in the interest of keeping a “judgment-free zone,” as Bennett calls it, she doesn’t ask any follow up questions. No need to dredge up memories of high school with all of the implied trauma inherent to American public education.

“Never have I ever thought a cartoon character was hot.” Rue suppresses a grin as she sets the bottle in the console.

“That’s seriously your lead question?” In shame, Lexi bows her head, grabs the water and takes a sip.

“Huh.” Humored by the idea, Rue raises an eyebrow. “Which ones did it for you?”

“First of all, gross. But I guess I’d say Shang from _Mulan_ , Fred from _Scooby Doo_ , Balto...”

“Balto like the sled dog?”

“Don’t judge me! It was a confusing time.”

“This is a judgment-free zone,” Rue reiterates. “Your secret cartoon dog crush is safe with me.”

They pass a large wooden sign marking Big Sur State Park, diverting Lexi’s attention to unexpected nostalgia before she asks the next question. “We used to camp here,” she remarks nonchalantly.

“Who?”

“When I was a kid. Twice a year.”

Rue notes how the agent’s using that wistful tone reserved for the subjects she usually avoids discussing. “I didn’t peg you as the outdoors type, Howard.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Lexi scoffs. She looks back out the window to the tall mountains lining the coastal preserve. “The Howards were terrible campers. My parents always found something to argue about so my sister and I did most of the work setting up camp, pitching the tent… Then after the sun set, after Mom passed out in her sleeping bag, my dad would tell us scary stories by the fire.”

“That’s… wholesome. Kind of.”

It’s refreshing to hear Howard talk about her family without subsequently shutting down. Too bad Rue doesn’t know what to say next. “I’ve never been camping,” she admits like it’s a shameful secret.

Lexi whips her head around. “You’ve never been camping?” she asks, as if Rue delivered a piece of news far more shocking than what she actually just said.

“That wasn’t really my family’s ‘thing’.” Rue pauses and wonders if she should stop here, then pushes herself with a reminder that little risks are good. “My dad always talked about going. But we ran out of time.” Rue pauses to let herself reminisce. Her life can easily be divided in these phases: before her dad and after her dad, before Jules and after Jules.

As Lexi recalls, Bennett’s only mentioned her dad once or twice and in the vaguest of terms. They were close, and he died young, and Bennett’s a different person because of it. Lexi could guess, based on conjecture, that Bennett never really got over it. It would explain a lot about why Bennett is the way she is, and how she copes with her problems. Anytime Lexi starts to think about this she stops herself, since it feels invasive to speculate on something so personal and formative.  
Family is one subject high on the informal “do not broach” list. But now the subject’s been broached. Bennett may not be eager to discuss this, just like Lexi’s never eager to discuss her mom or Cassie, but they’re talking about it now. It can’t hurt to ask. Can it?

“How old were you again?”

Understanding the unspoken context, Rue puffs a loud sigh as she thinks back. “When he died? I think I was fourteen. God, it feels like an eternity ago.”

“Huh. That’s how old I was when Dad took off,” Lexi notes. “Talk about bad timing. As if starting high school isn’t hard enough in its own.”

Rue looks at Howard, and back to the road. Time to change the subject. Lighten things up. “Hey, maybe we can go camping when the case is over. You can show me how it’s done,” Rue suggests with a wink.

“Oh, uh… Yeah, we should.”

Lexi immediately flushes bright red and turns back to the window, then takes another gulp of water. She thanks whatever god exists that Bennett didn’t catch her incredibly dorky reaction to the casual suggestion.

But it’s not casual to Lexi. There’s one small, very crucial detail implied in Bennett’s modest proposal. Even after the kiss, Lexi and Rue never mapped out a timetable for their relationship. There was no agreement that they’d see each other for a certain amount of time, no promise to even keep talking after the case. Those possibilities only existed in Lexi’s imagination. Now Bennett spoke that aspiration into existence. The idea that Bennett’s thinking beyond the case, and that she’s making plans for Lexi to still be in her life afterwards… That’s a big fucking deal, right?

Did Bennett know what she was saying? Did she actually mean it? Does it mean what Lexi took it to mean? Is she overthinking this? Maybe, maybe, probably not, and definitely yes.

For a while they ride in comfortable silence to the tune of _Original Musiquarium._ Eventually Rue pulls off to a biker bar on the side of the road. Lexi shoots her a concerned look to which Rue shrugs. “What? You said you were hungry.”

“Are you sure this is the best... environment for you?”

Rue looks to the dusty bar, then to Howard. “I think I can handle it.”

* * *

Everyone in the bar (five people total) turns and looks at Rue and Lexi when they enter, eyes lingering on the badges on each woman’s belts. The waitress, a pale woman with dark deep-set eyes and track marks on her arm, seems nervous when she arrives at their table.

“Drinks? Food?”

“Do you filter your coffee?” Rue asks as if that’s a normal question, to which the waitress only scowls in reply. “Regular coffee, then.”

“And two waters,” Lexi adds quickly. “And chicken tenders.”

The patrons continue to eye Lexi and Rue wearily as if feeling the partners out. Through the order window Lexi sees the waitress and a cook whispering to each other in the back, occasionally pointing at one another and then to the dining room.

“I’m pretty sure this place is a front,” Lexi whispers.

Rue looks around and nods in agreement. “Oh yeah, definitely. Drugs, guns—they’re running something through here.”

“Should we leave?”

“Nah, it’s okay. No one’s gonna bother us if we don’t bother them. They’re probably just nervous because you strolled in here in this little number.” Rue leans over and snaps Lexi’s suspenders, rattling the sidearm in the agent’s shoulder holster.

“What, the suspenders?” Lexi looks down at her gear and furrows her eyebrows. “That’s my uniform, though.”

“No one’s making you wear that,” Rue retorts. “You wear these babies for the aesthetic. Don’t try and tell me otherwise.”

“I wear them because I shoot better from the shoulder than from the hip. What’s your excuse?”

“I shoot from the shoulder too.”

Lexi cocks her head and smiles. “But they took your gun away. So why are you still wearing suspenders?”

They glance at each other, gauging the other’s reaction—a few weeks ago that comment would’ve gotten Lexi’s ass kicked.

Then, quietly, they start to giggle. “Fuck you, Howard,” Rue mutters through hiccups and gives her partner a playful shove. “They compliment my shoulders.”

“Yeah they do.” Lexi bites her lip and shoves Bennett back clumsily. So maybe she’s not as adept at flirting as Bennett. Awkwardness aside, she’s definitely enjoying their newfound report.

The waitress appears with their order before Rue can reply, and it’s perhaps the first time ever that Lexi’s disappointed by the arrival of her food. After the waitress leaves Rue leans close to Lexi with a sly grin. “You think they poisoned the food?”

“Well now I do,” Lexi mutters as she tosses her hands up.

“Ah, come on. I’m messing with you. Here,” Rue offers as she takes a bite out of one of the tenders, “now we’re going down together.”

After a few minutes the partners start to relax. While Lexi picks at her food, Rue sips her coffee and lets her eyes wander around. No one’s looking at her or Howard anymore because someone turned on the TV at the bar. She watches the TV for a moment, trying to ignore the elephant in her peripheral vision, but finally tires of fighting the pull. Her eyes move down the line of bottles on the back shelf—Wild Turkey, Fireball, Tito’s… Southern Comfort.

Lexi looks up from her plate, sees Bennett staring at the bar and swallows thickly. “We should get out of here. I’m full anyway.”

Howard’s voice brings Rue back. As they stand up to leave, the detective tosses a $20 bill on the table and doesn’t care to wait for the change.

* * *

Even a breathtaking view gets boring after a while. The tedium of such a long drive gives the partners plenty of time to think. Too much time as usual for Lexi. She’s always thinking too much no matter how much time she has or what she’s thinking about.

One would assume, in all her worrying, that she would’ve come up with a good plan for what they’re about to do. But no. Frankly, this is a complex situation. Not only is she bringing a blacklisted cop to talk to a highly restricted suspect, but she’s going off book and against orders. They have to get in and get out without leaving forms, records or general proof that she and Bennett were ever there. How is she going to pull this off? No clue. Lexi’s forte is working within the rules, not breaking them. Hopefully blind luck can compensate for lack of strategy.

While Lexi tries and fails to plan ahead, Rue stews over what’s already happened. One poorly timed glance at a certain bottle and suddenly this weird guilt keeps welling up in her. It’s not like she’s done anything wrong, right? At least not in the last few weeks. Nothing that she should feel bad about, nothing deceitful or intentionally hurtful. It’s just simple, vague, irrational, misplaced guilt that urges her to explain herself over nothing.

“I wasn’t staring because I wanted a drink.”

Lexi turns to face Rue, genuinely confused before she realizes what Bennett’s talking about— _that_ moment at the bar. “If you did it’s fine. That’s normal.”

“I know. It’s still not why.” Rue looks sideways at Howard then back to the road. Unsure of what else to do, she reaches over to nudge Lexi, trying to break any perceived tension. Lexi grabs her hand and holds it with both of hers, causing them to look at each other and smile. Having said all they needed to say, they look back to the road while Rue drives one-handed and Lexi runs her fingers through Rue’s palm. Rue likes the way her hand feels in Howard’s.

However, the longer they roll through the slow cluster of construction traffic the more her thoughts gnaw at Rue. What’s she trying to prove by saying these things? That she doesn’t have a problem? Both of them know better. She just wishes Howard could understand. Rue wasn’t tempted by the sight of the bottle so much as frustrated by it. It still reminds her of the wrong things. Of that night at the convenience store.

Rue didn’t relapse the night before she kissed Howard. That’s the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but the part Howard needed to hear.

_Rue plodded home from the store, one foot after the other, with a goal of setting as much distance as possible between her and the store’s wares. Tonight’s long walk home, anything but relaxing, failed to clear her mind. By the time she got home and flopped down on her bed, her feet ached. She’d never been the kind of person who enjoyed exercising (or moving in general)._

_With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and tried to unwind. Only that wasn’t going to happen, because she’d fucked up. Just like always. That bottle of Southern Comfort was still under her bed. She had forgotten but now she could feel it underneath her, calling with a siren song._

_As soon as she thought she was safe..._

_She pulled herself upright, head spinning and fingers tapping her palms. The options were clear, the pitfalls of the wrong choice obvious. And now she was ready to make the right one. She was older, smarter, stronger now. She’d suffered the consequences too many times to make the same mistake._

_She kneeled down under the bed, pulled the bottle out from underneath, and dusted it off. Her better judgment urged her to pour the contents down the drain. Dump it out. Cast it into the fire. And that would be it, another small victory, another tie to her old ways severed._

_The right choice was so obvious that she thought acting on it would be easy. She was sorely mistaken. Because knowing the right thing to do, and actually doing it, are two different challenges. Because that craving never really goes away, so much as lies in wait to catch you in a weak moment. The feel of the bottle in her hands and its sick familiarity was what caught Rue this time. She stared down at the label. That bottle was voodoo, and holding it gave her sickening nostalgia for all the wrong things._

_She quickly slid the bottle under the bed and backed away from it. She stole out for her office that night. Maybe she wouldn’t get much sleep under the table in the conference room, but she knew that place was dry._

  
As she recalls her failure, Rue squeezes Lexi’s hands and Lexi squeezes back reassuringly. They’re both too lost in thought, neither remotely prepared as they approach the gates of the penitentiary. It’s a hulking concrete structure insulated by layers of tall fences, barbed wire and guard towers.

“This place gives me bad vibes,” Lexi mumbles.

“Yeah. Bad vibes. Prison Industrial Complex vibes.”

Lexi can hear the apprehension in Bennett’s voice, and when she turns to Bennett she sees it in her wide eyes. “Ready to do this?”

“Yeah,” Rue nods slowly as they give each other another hand squeeze, “what’s the worst that can happen?”

That’s not an answer either of them want to find out today.

Lexi uses her FBI badge to clear the front gate with encouraging ease. From the gate they’re directed to the main entrance. As Rue parks, Lexi stares up at the big UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY sign above the main doors and swallows hard. The fact that this isn’t such a good idea is becoming very apparent to both of them.

“Okay, what’s the plan Howard?”

“We’re gonna go inside and ask to see him,” Lexi states simply.

“Wait,” Rue turns and frowns, “that’s it? That’s our plan?”

“I mean, I don’t really _have_ one in a literal sense.”

“But you always have a plan!” Rue howls in disbelief. Why would Howard choose now, of all times, to try to wing it?

Because Lexi doesn’t actually have a clue what she’s doing. “Well you don’t make plans and it usually still works out for you,” she replies defensively.

“Are you joking? It never works out for me.”

“Well let’s hope it’s different this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a reference to either food or music in every single chapter, I’m pretty sure. It’s clear where my priorities lie.


	27. Stone Walls and Steel Bars

The inside of the penitentiary, at least its public face, resembles a normal hospital rather than a prison—except for the armed guards and the metal detectors and huge electronic locks on the doors, of course. Rue and Lexi hesitate to step farther inside and contaminate this austere clinical environment, so they opt to hide by the entrance and scan their surroundings.

Lexi does have one piece of valuable knowledge from her past visits: the front desk clerks are the gateway. Convince them you should be here, get through the security screening, and they’re in the clear. The hard part, of course, is tricking them.

The front desk is presently manned by a squatty older woman with deep wrinkles and a stern countenance. Clearly the type of worker who’s been at her job too long and had the life sucked out of her a decade ago. The protocol is baked into her and she’d smell their bullshit immediately.

“We’ll never get past her,” Lexi whispers.

“Maybe we don’t have to.” Rue gestures to another clerk at the other end of the desk, slumped over a computer and almost unnoticeable. “Check it out. A rookie.”

“How do you figure?” Lexi questions as she sizes up the baby-faced Buttigieg lookalike.

“Look at his uniform. His collar isn’t ironed. He missed a button. He looks like one of the new guys at the precinct who don’t know how to wear their Class B.”

A passing drug dog stops and sniffs Rue’s shoe, halting their conversation for a tense few seconds. “Okay, so the kid’s new,” Lexi whispers as soon as the handler drags the dog away. “How does that help us?”

“If he doesn’t know how to wear his uniform, he definitely doesn’t know all the rules and regs. We can bullshit him and he probably won’t know any better.”

Lexi squints and nods. “What’s the play?”

“Wanna tag-team it?”

“Let’s do it.”

The partners stroll to the desk, exuding the overconfidence of two people who have no idea what they’re doing and expect to get away with it. “We’re here to speak to Tyler Clarkson,” Lexi states authoritatively, handing over her badge. Rue slumps over the counter with her head resting on her hands.

The clerk smiles tightly as he types the name on the badge into the database, then nods. “Senior Special Agent Howard... Looks like you’re on the approved list.”

The partners glance at each other, equally surprised at the stroke of good fortune (though it makes sense, Lexi being a case lead). “And you, ma’am?” the clerk prompts Rue, causing the detective to bristle. She hates being called _ma’am._

“She’s my guest,” Lexi interjects. “A consultant.”

“Ah, this guy’s restricted access. I can’t let her in without sign-off papers or some proof of authorization.” He shrugs and frowns with unconvincing regret.

Time to play hardball. Lexi and Rue turn to each other and smirk, as if laughing at some inside joke the rookie’s not aware of. “How long you been here, kid?” Rue questions as she leans over the desk.

The clerk clears his throat and straightens his posture. “I… Uh, two months.”

“So you’re pretty new around here?” Rue turns to Lexi with a sympathetic edge in her voice. “Give him a break, Howard. Go easy on him.”

_Great, a cold call._

“You’re right, Bennett,” Lexi sighs. “Case leads don’t need authorization papers, for future reference. I’m just letting you know do you don’t embarrass yourself next time.”

“Right, sorry.” The guard narrows his eyes at her, then he sets a clipboard on the counter. “Well she still needs to fill out this form for the visitor log, so we can get it post-approved.”

Fighting her discomfort underneath the assertive façade, Lexi stiffens her shoulders to try and appear intimidating. “Look kid, since you just started I’m gonna assume you don’t recognize her?” She gestures to Rue, who hasn’t broken from starting the clerk down since they started talking.

The clerk looks between them again and his polite smile fades into confusion. “No? Should I?”

Lexi pokes her tongue in her cheek and nods. “Why don’t you grab some water, Bennett? I promise we won’t make you wait.”

Trusting Lexi’s improv, Rue strolls to the water fountain at the back of the room, leaving Lexi on her own with the rookie. Fortunately, even though she has no idea what she’s saying, her adrenaline has taken over.

“I’m surprised you don’t recognize her, actually. She made national news a few years ago. Killed a man and ate his fingers right off his hand. Yeah. Even the bones.”

“Are you...” He stutters, mouth agape, and blinks quickly. “Why isn’t she in jail?”

“Her guilty verdict against got thrown out because of a technicality. Crazy stuff.” Lexi plays with her the pen on the clipboard as she talks as if making casual conversation. “We still have to monitor her, though, so she’s part of a special program. One of the Bureau’s most valuable resources for profiling other psychopaths in our custody. When we have a handle on her, that is.”

He leans in close to her. “What do you mean?”

“She’s a little... hard to control sometimes. She really, really doesn’t like being held up. It kind of makes her fly off the handle. Last time a C.O. pissed her off she clawed his cheek open.”

The guard sits back, eyes wide, and looks over Lexi’s shoulder. Rue’s standing at the back of the room next to the water cooler, staring him down with a taut expression.

For several agonizing seconds Lexi prepares to bolt for the parking lot. The clerk looks at her and then Bennett once more, now looking genuinely fearful, and swallows so thickly she sees his Adam’s apple bob. “I just... I... Let me get one of the interview rooms ready. Tell her I won’t make her fill out anything.” He looks over Lexi’s shoulder again and bows to Rue, then turns to Lexi. “Just dot down your badge number on that form so I can register you.”

As soon as the clerk scurries into a back room, Rue comes back up to the desk and leans on it next to Lexi. “So what happened? Are you gonna get in trouble?”

“I’m allowed to be here,” Lexi reminds her. “You’re the secret part.”

“So what’s next? Are we home free now?”

“For now, yeah.”

“What do you mean, ‘for now’?”

“It means you’re gonna get to talk through your guy.” What comes after that, Lexi doesn’t know, but at least Bennett’s getting what she needs.

After glancing up to make sure no one can overhear them Rue looks back to Howard, who keeps her eyes glued to her clipboard. “What did you say to him?”

“I just told him that he didn’t want to hold you up.”

“Huh. Looks like it really worked.”

The clerk returns and motions them over to the security screening. They’re almost over the next hurdle when the guard calls out—“Wait!”

Lexi and Rue turn around, hearts thudding hard as they consider how much trouble they’re going to get into.

“Your gun, ma’am,” the guard reminds Lexi. “You’re required to check it into a locker. That’s just the rules. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Oh, right. No problem.” Relieved, Lexi hesitates then hands her holster over.

Neither say a word, or even breathe, as they pass through the screening and follow an escort down an empty narrow hall, where they wait outside a door marked as Interview Room A. Rue starts to pace slowly while Lexi leans against the wall, each deep in thought about what’s next.

“Ten minutes with him,” Rue mutters as she checks her watch. “That’s all I need.”

“You can’t break him in ten minutes.”

“I don’t need to break him. I just need to talk to him face to face.” Rue licks her lips and hesitates, knowing she needs to tread carefully with her next proposal. “Also, I think I should talk to him solo.”

“What? Why?” Lexi looks up at Rue then up and down the hall, remembering they could be overheard.

“Because you made him cry? Poor kid’s probably terrified of you.”

“Oh. Right.” Lexi had almost forgotten about her minor confrontation with Tyler. It was a moment of lost control, one Lexi would rather forget. In fact, she’d almost forgotten about it since it happened the day after she got drunk and “slept” with Bennett. Suffice to say there was a lot on her mind that particular weekend.

After a good 15 minutes of standing around and waiting, they’re informed that the room’s ready. Suddenly anxious and in need of reassurance, Rue looks to Lexi one more time.

“You got this. Go get ‘em.”

* * *

Tyler Clarkson looks like shit. Not surprising. Spend too long behind bars and anyone will come out looking like shit. And the yellow jumpsuit completely washes him out. But even knowing this, Rue’s still taken aback by the haggard difference in the man’s appearance after only a few weeks. She was already nervous and this throws her off even more. If only Howard was in here with her.

Rue is quiet for too long before she remembers that she has to speak first. She’s only been trying to talk to this guy since the moment he was arrested, so now that she’s right across from him she can’t think of anything to say except “How are you?”

“How am I?” He drums his fingers on the steel table as he thinks, unprepared for the innocuous question. “Well, they said I’d probably get killed if I was in a general population. So they have me here instead, because it’s actually safer for me to be in federal fucking prison, because at least here I have a cell to myself. Meanwhile I have no idea how the hell I got here in the first place.” He’s stone-faced and staring daggers at her.

If Tyler’s innocent (and Rue strongly believes he is), she needs to approach this differently than she would a normal interview. Therein lies the catch: from past experience, Rue’s more comfortable trying to strong arm a confession through intimidation and pressure. But this time she’s not seeking out a confession. She’s trying to vindicate him.

It takes a completely different interrogative skill set to make a suspect feel comfortable enough to talk openly. She needs empathy, warmth, and rapport here—Howard’s specialties, not Rue’s. What would Howard say in a situation like this? Regular Howard, that is—not the version of the agent who went full Jethro Gibbs and made her target cry in ninety seconds.

Without the agent to assist, it’s up to Rue to figure out how to get on her suspect’s good side instead of shaking him down. She decides to put it all on the table.

“I’m not here to play head games. That’s what I’m usually good at but I don’t want to do that today. I want to be straight up with you.”

Tyler stares her down, still dead-eyed.

“I don’t think you killed those women,” she disclaims. “I mean, I’m kind of in the minority there so don’t get your hopes up but... I’m just trying to figure out what’s really going on. The evidence only tells one side of the story.”

He finally makes eye contact with her now. “The evidence is flat wrong, man.” Though it’s restrained by reluctance, the desperation in his voice is clear. 

“How is it possible for DNA evidence to be wrong?”

“You tell me.”

Rue bobs her head and thinks carefully. “You said that someone mugged you on the night of Mara Kemp’s murder,” she redirects.

“Yeah. Beat me up and took my backpack.”

“Did you file a police report?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He stole pills off me.” His eyes drop to the handcuffs on his wrists.

 _There’s something more here_. Rue’s instincts urge her to keep pulling on this thread. “What kind of pills were they?”

Tyler shrugs as he tries to think back. “I don’t know. Xans, Percs, Addies. Standard stuff.”

“Did you get a good look at this guy?”

“He had a mask on half of his face. Fell off when he was beating on me but my eye was swollen shut. I guess I kind of saw him.”

“Okay...” Rue rubs her jaw and thinks, then slides her notepad across the table. “You any good with art? Can you draw him?”

Tyler looks at her, wordlessly questioning if she’s serious. When she nods intently he takes the pen and paper and starts to sketch. Though his ability to draw is somewhat restrained by the cuffs, she can tell he’s more at ease than a few minutes ago.

“So what else did he take from you?” she pushes further.

Focused on his drawing, Tyler doesn’t look up at the sound of her voice. “He just took my backpack and the cash out of my wallet.”

“Not your credit cards?”

“Nope.”

“What else do you remember? Anything at all. Nothing’s irrelevant.”

He stops drawing and furrows his brow. “It’s weird,” he mumbles distantly, “but I remember thinking he had really expensive clothes for a mugger. Nice leather jacket, Balenciagas, a Rolex.” Then he slides rough sketch on the notepad back to her.

Rue can take a look at that later. Gotta stay focused. Sensing a dead end, she switches courses. “Were you supplying Sara Villarreal?”

He leans back in his chair and his eyes drop. “That’s what _they’re_ saying. I never even met that person.”

“Right.” She pauses for a beat and taps her pen against her notepad. “Okay, next topic?”

* * *

It’s been 30 minutes since Bennett started talking to Clarkson. 30 minutes of Lexi waiting outside and wondering if anything’s gone wrong. Among other things.

There are more urgent problems to think about right now: whether she’ll get in trouble for being here, or if Bennett’s right and her suspect’s innocent. Lexi’s not really thinking about any of that. She’d rather think about camping. About commitment, and whether it’s even possible.

Obviously she’s getting greedy. She never thought she’d make it this far with Bennett, so she’s privileged to even consider the possibility of a longer term relationship. But their newfound status makes it harder to find clarity. Is it worse to love someone who doesn’t care, or to love someone who cares but doesn’t love you back?

Rue finally emerges, relieving Lexi of her angst for the moment. “How’d it go?”

“I’ll tell you about it in the car.” Rue holds up her notepad, a distinctive sketch among the notes. She points to the chin, the broad forehead, the spiky dark hair. “Look familiar?”

Lexi looks at the drawing carefully—the chin, broad forehead, spiky dark hair. Looks familiar. She turns to Rue. “You still have those physical descriptions from the witness statements? We might need them.”

* * *

The drive back is quiet and uneventful—at first. The dark and remote stretch of coastal drive limits distractions and allows the partners to get stuck in their own heads as they do so often. Rue keeps looking over at Lexi, which in turn makes Lexi nervous that they’re about to have one of those _serious_ talks. Rue just wants to pick the agent’s brain.

“What’d you think?” Rue finally asks, taking the risk and yielding the silence.

“About what?”

“Everything I told you about. What he said. His sketch. What do you think?”

It’s a prompt loaded with implications, as Rue’s questions usually are. “I don’t know what to think yet,” she answers carefully.”

“Is this legit? Should I talk to Ali?”

Lexi chews her lips and tries to calculate the most tactful approach for what she has to do. Finally, she takes a deep breath and prepares to disappoint Bennett. Honesty is supposedly the best policy, though not the easy one. “We have a bunch of weird little… anomalies. That’s what it is at this point. I can’t derail all of my work with the Bureau because some tiny details don’t add up yet. Not without hard evidence.”

Not the answer Rue wanted to hear, nor the one she expected. Out of everyone, Howard has the most informed opinion and should be able to see her side of things. “Something’s off with the case,” she pushes back. “You know it, I know it, that kid sitting in a prison cell before he’s even been charged knows it.”

“Again, that’s all we have. A hunch. And that ‘kid’ murdered 20 women.”

Rue opts for a sigh instead of a scoff, the slightly less disrespectful medium to express her displeasure. For Lexi the difference is trivial to the real meaning: Bennett honestly still thinks the real Strangler’s out there, that their suspect is part of some larger scheme which defies the overwhelming evidence against him.

“I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to stop people from getting hurt,” Lexi tries to disclaim. We saw what he did to all those women, the sick, twisted… And that’s not even counting what happened to Mara Kemp. I’m not going to give a monster the benefit of the doubt when there’s DNA proving otherwise.”

Howard’s fucking moral high ground is relentless. Though frustrated, Rue restrains herself from saying something she’ll regret. “Why does that one bother you so much?” she redirects.

“What?”

“Mara Kemp. Like, what is it about her, specifically?”

“I don’t know. It was extreme.” The crime scene photos, blood, brain matter and blond clumps of hair against green carpet, flicker through her mind. “It was extreme. Sadistic. Just… really fucked up… Why doesn’t it bother you more?”

“It does bother me! It bothers me a lot.” Rue pauses to think. “I guess I just channel it differently. By making sure we find her real killer.” Now her voice picks up, speaking with urgency. “I know I have something here. I just don’t note what it is yet. We can’t ignore the fact that he doesn’t even come close to matching the initial physical descriptions. And what about the witness tampering?”

All valid questions, but not enough to shake Lexi’s faith in her own findings. “Where’s the proof? If we had some hard evidence for any of that, then I wouldn’t argue with you. But we don’t.”

“Forensic psychology, criminal profiling and behavior assessment are your areas of expertise, right? Look at it from that perspective.”

Lexi sighs and flops her hands up. So she doesn’t have all the answers for Bennett. Even if she did, she suspects Bennett would just find new holes in the case against Tyler. This is not a productive (professional) partnership if Lexi’s mandate is to get him convicted.

“Tyler Clarkson is the Strangler,” Lexi says firmly. “The sooner you accept that the sooner we can get on with our lives.” She can almost taste the acid in her tongue as she speaks.

The agent’s words aren’t pleasant to hear for Rue. After all this time Howard really doesn’t get it. Her job, her case, is Rue’s life, and unless she can see it through to a proper conclusion, she just won’t be satisfied. How could Howard not want that same closure?

“Is this about protecting your theory? Saving face?”

“What? No! You know I’m not like that.” Borderline insulted and fully provoked, Lexi lets her mouth get ahead of herself. “Maybe it’s about one of us not wanting to let go of a case:”

Rue opens her own mouth to reply but the sting of Howard’s words blanks her mind. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she doesn’t have a good comeback. She looks at Lexi in disbelief, scoffs, looks over at her again and tightens her grip on the steering wheel.

They glance at the exit sign up ahead—183 TO SALINAS: 10 MILES. “Want to make a pit stop?” Rue asks bitingly, unable to resist a spiteful joke against an obviously sore subject.

“Stop it, Bennett.”

“We can say hi to some of your cartel friends—.”

Lexi smacks her hand against her window, her ring clinking the glass so loudly that Rue jumps. “I SAID STOP IT,” the agent warns with clinched teeth and a wavering voice.

It takes Lexi a moment to cool off and realize what just happened, and though immediately stricken with guilt, she stops short of apologizing. She deserves to get angry, doesn’t she? She’s allowed to feel things, and in the safety of Bennett’s company, she has a right to express them.

The ringing against the glass echoes through the car, now oppressively quiet except for the music on low volume. This is the bad kind of the silence, the one Rue knows too well and hates the most. It takes her back to the unspoken stalemates between her and Jules, them sweeping it all under the rug, until the anger festered and boiled over and ruined everything in its wake.

Rue can’t let that happen again. She just can’t. Not with Howard. They need to talk this out. She shakes her head, steers over to the side of an overlook and taps hard on the brakes. But they approach the guardrail too fast for Lexi’s comfort, and she gasps and braces against her seat as the car screeches to a halt.

The moment the car’s in park, Lexi jumps out and looks at how close they came to wrecking—a much safer distance from this angle than from inside the car. Just a matter of perspective. She runs her fingers through her hair, sets her hands on her hips, tries to grapple with everything that’s happened these last two minutes.

When she turns around Rue’s standing next to her. “Shit, did I scare you?” the detective asks cautiously.

“A little bit.” Lexi looks at her and back to the guardrail with a hitched breath. Despite the knowledge that she wasn’t in serious danger, her heart’s still racing. “Let’s just get back on the road.”

Lexi tugs on the door handle and it doesn’t open. She looks at Rue, whose eyes go wide as she pats her empty pockets. “They, uh— They might be… still in the car, I think.”

Lexi stares at her then tugs the door handle one more time. No dice. Quietly accepting the predicament, she ambles over to the front of the car and plops down on the hood.

Rue stares at Howard’s back, smacks her head and curses under her breath. Even when—especially when—she’s actively trying to make things better, she makes everything worse. How much of a fucking idiot could she be, driving like a psycho when Howard’s afraid of car wrecks? She doesn’t use her brain enough.

She paces across the gravel and rejects the impulse to panic. Finally, she swallows her fear and decides to give the whole conflict resolution thing one last shot. Not like they have anything better to do at the moment.

When Rue sits down next to Lexi the agent turns to look at her, acknowledging her presence. But she doesn’t say anything, forcing Rue to speak first.

“Are you mad about the keys?”

“You didn’t mean to do that.”

“You’re mad because I made that joke about Salinas.”

Lexi stays quiet, lacking the fight to make Bennett understand or try to explain herself. She’s just too tired.

Rue twists the rings around her finger for a few beats of silence as she tries to figure out what to say. “I’m sorry. I was frustrated and I lashed out. I saw the sign and I knew saying that would hurt you and I… I said it anyway.” She tilts her head back and looks up at the stars so that she doesn’t let tears fall. It’s really a horrible talent: even when she tries her hardest not to, she finds new ways to let people down. And eventually, maybe not too far off in the future, Howard will hit her limit of letdowns.

When Lexi sees the window of internal panic in Rue’s eyes, she takes her partner’s hand to bring her back. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too.” After a long silence, Lexi speaks up again with a markedly distant voice. “You can’t really get to know someone if they won’t let you.”

It’s strange to hear Howard finally acknowledge what’s gone unsaid, now speaking it into reality. Rue doesn’t know what to say, but she suspects that she doesn’t _need_ to say anything right now. Just listen.

Lexi looks out to the dark overlook and wonders if she should keep this to herself. Then she looks down at her hand, safely intertwined with Bennett’s. “There’s a lot that I need to work through and I just… I don’t even think about it,” she continues. “I don’t want to remember it. So it doesn’t go away. And then if there’s any reminder I freak out because I never figured out how to handle it.”

“I think we both have that problem.”

This isn’t the hill either of them want to die on. It’s just not worth it. This _thing_ between them means too much; it’s bigger than the case. Neither of them are ready to sacrifice that for some silly argument. Tired of the tension, they share a small, tired laugh. Lexi rests her head on Rue’s shoulder, which Rue greets by kissing the top of Lexi’s head.

These are not the types of conversations had by people in a casual relationship, or by two people “taking it slow.” Rue knows this, and so does Lexi. That didn’t stop them from talking. And neither of them are sure what that means.

“Rue?”

“Yeah?”

“What are we going to do about the car?”

Rue has forgotten about the locked car, the whole reason they’re stranded here in the first place. She groans and pulls out her phone. “Closest locksmith is an hour away.”

“Maybe I can finagle it open. I’m pretty good at picking locks,” Lexi sits up and hops off the hood.

“Okay...” Rue nods slowly, following her partner to the drivers side door. “But, like, why?”

Declining to answer, Lexi kneels down and examines the lock with her phone’s flashlight. “Do you have two or three hair pins?”

Rue pulls a couple out of her hair and hands them to Lexi, who bends them in half and starts to work them into the lock. “Yeah, that’s cool,” Rue mumbles, shuffling her feet on the gravel. “You don’t have to tell me more about that very intriguing tidbit.”

While Rue goes ahead and calls a locksmith, Lexi keeps working to get the door open. Eventually she succumbs to the fact that this particular car lock is too fancy for her ability and joins her partner back on the hood. The detective’s posted on the hood of the car, back against the windshield and legs crossed like she’s using her car as a lounge chair.

“I was wondering when you were gonna join me.”

“Would’ve given up sooner if I’d known you were waiting.”

For a long time the partners enjoy parallel silence, letting themselves decompress from the long day and relax in the other’s company. At some point Rue ends up in the crook of Lexi’s arm, using it as a pillow as she nuzzles against her partner. “You don’t get a view like that in the city,” Rue finally remarks as she points up at the cluster of stars above them.

“Yeah, definitely can’t see stars in LA.”

It occurs to Lexi that she hasn’t seen a sky free of light pollution in months, just like she only recently started seeing sunsets. Just another way she’s seeing in color. Only Bennett could make getting stranded on the side of the highway the best thing that’s happened all day.

“What are you gonna do after the case?” Lexi ventures after a long silence.

Rue furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”

“Just pretend that Tyler Clarkson really is the Strangler and the case is over. Where does that leave us?”

“I guess it leaves us with a lot more time on our hands.”

Lexi should just accept the answer and move on. She shouldn’t go further, shouldn’t push her luck or try to—

“What about you and me?” _Wow, real subtle Lex._

The question probably shouldn’t catch Rue off guard, but it still does. Howard’s new place in her life had felt so natural she hadn’t considered its depth. Now, posed with the question directly, she dithers. She doesn’t want to answer, to define something while it’s still good. Such labels, a stamp confirming their relationship, would only hasten its inevitable end. She doesn’t want this to end. So Rue panics, and the longer doesn’t say anything, the more Lexi regrets asking.

“You’ll get your next assignment. Hopefully I’ll get my job back. And I can keep doing what I know how to do.” _What a fucking cowardly response,_ she thinks to herself.

Bright headlights and the sound of crunching gravel signals the approach of the locksmith’s car, halting the conversation. Rue deals with the locksmith while Lexi stays on the hood, silently nursing the sting of implicit rejection.

The car unlocked, the partners climb in and stare straight ahead until the interior lights turn off. Rue sticks the keys into the ignition, then leans back in her seat with a huff. “Lex...” She shakes her head and turns to face Howard.

The disappointment in Lexi’s face is clear, despite her best efforts to conceal it. “I get it,” she tries to mollify. As usual, she’s not a very good liar.

Yet again, Rue went and fucked it all up just when it was going well. She turns away from Howard, facing forward with her head low in shame. Howard’s the best thing that’s happened to her since... Well, in a very, very long time. The answer is clear, and a smarter and stronger person be able to confirm. But she can’t bring herself to do that. Not yet. Not with Jules is hanging over her shoulder, whispering reminders of the inevitable heartbreak. It’s still too fresh on her mind.

Lexi reaches over and brushes a strand of hair out of Rue’s face, and Rue looks up again and meets her eyes.

Where words fail, they know actions speak louder.

Rue smiles up at her, Lexi smiles back, and they close the gap, lips meeting in the middle. They have an excellent natural rhythm to their kisses, pushing and pulling as Rue’s hands curl around Lexi’s neck in the exact hold that weakens Lexi, no matter how many times they kiss. Lexi faintly registers her hands sliding under Rue’s shirt, though she’s more focused on Bennett nibbling her upper lip.

“You know that question you asked earlier, about you and me? Can we come back to it?” Rue asks breathlessly. “There’s something we gotta do first.”

“What’s that?” Lexi replies as she pulls away for air.

“Wanna fool around in the back seat?”

“Meet you back there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week was so much. Everyone okay? Getting enough sleep, drinking water, practicing self care? Hang in there. The national nightmare's almost over.


	28. Stress Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three POV chapters ahead: Lexi first, Nate, then Rue. 
> 
> Angst alert for this one. Also light smut. There’s a lot going on here.

Lexi had always wondered why people start smoking. Now she gets it. One cigarette calms her nerves for about five minutes, a small respite in the eye of the storm.

This evening finds her slumped on the bus stop bench, cigarette in hand and stewing over her newest problem. She’s landed on the ASAC’s shit list after he accused her of going behind his back to visit Clarkson a couple of weeks ago. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been—he still doesn’t know about Bennett. There’s always a silver lining if that’s the way you want to look at it.

She’s headed straight home today. Not enough energy for a detour. For much of anything. The pressure is constant, unrelenting, like stones piled on top of her one by one.

A few months ago a reprimand from her boss would’ve sent her into hysterics. Before her education in perspective. Now, if anything, she’s frustrated. After everything she’s done for this job, all the bullshit she put up with, everything she lost because of it, now it’s come to this: getting her ass handed to her by an incompetent boss over fucking bureaucratic rules. The last things she should be worrying about are chain of command and red tape.

She’s getting the hang of smoking, unfortunately. At least she doesn’t cough after every drag and knows how to hold the stick properly. If she keeps this up she’ll have a gravelly smoker’s voice soon. Now she needs just needs to take up chronic alcoholism, and she’ll truly be carrying on the Howard family legacy. No way she’s ever having kids.

As soon as she sees her bus in the distance, she swivels her head around once more to scan for suspicious persons. No one around—that she can see. Can’t always trust your eyes when reality’s not real anymore. Something’s been knocked off its axis, leaving in its place a gloss of unreality accompanied by this constant, irrational… _wrong_ feeling that she can’t place.

Lexi blinks and she’s slumped on the couch, laptop in front of her and Bennett on FaceTime.

“Hey Starling, you’re thinking too loud again.”

“Sorry, what’d you say?” she mumbles as she looks around her apartment, confused. The bus ride must’ve been unmemorable.

“Get it? Starling? From _Silence of the Lambs_.” Bennett grins, clearly proud of her reference.

“Uh huh, you’re really funny and clever. What were we talking about before that?”

“I asked if you have another copy of those physical descripts from the witnesses? I can’t find mine.”

“Right. I’ll send one over tomorrow.”

“So listen,” Bennett starts off, bouncing with energy. “The guy from those decripts. The guy who mugged Tyler. What do they have in common? Same physical features, right? So I’m gonna take it to the composite artist and have him do some work ups.”

“Mhmm.” The detective’s words pass through Lexi before she can absorb much of what was said.

Bennett leans close to the camera, providing a remarkable nostril shot that Lexi doesn’t have the wherewithal to screenshot. “You sure you’re okay? I can come over tonight.”

It would be better if Bennett were here. When was the last time the detective spent the night? Couldn’t have been too long ago. But it’s not Lexi’s place to inconvenience or cause trouble. She’s the uncomplicated one, the backrest upon which others unload their mistakes and problems.

“No, yeah, I’m good. Well. I’m well. Because that’s the right… grammar…” For a moment she gets distracted by the sound of a siren a few blocks away. “Stay where you are. I’m just... chillin’ here.”

Bennett smirks at Lexi’s uncomfortable delivery. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you ‘ _chillin’_. You’re always, like, staring off into the middle distance, waiting for your husband to return from war.”

The comment draws the first laugh out of Lexi in several days, but it’s a weak one. Her chest is usually too heavy to summon much positive emotion. But it doesn’t last long when she realizes she didn’t check on Bennett’s block today. What if _they_ saw her go inside?

_Fucking hell._

Of course she’s never “chill” when these are the kinds of problems she has to handle. She doesn’t have a choice of going easy when the dangers of this job don’t stay confined to work hours. If you’re not careful they follow you home, too.

“Still making sure you’re safe?”

“Yep. Are you?”

“How are you getting in and out of your apartment, by the way?”

Bennett takes a big bite of food out of a to-go and nods. “I have a system of alternate methods of entry.”

 _Too many big words to process at once_. “What does that mean?”

“Well, it’s... I—,” the detective stutters as she bobs her head back and forth. “I, y’know, I go through a trash chute.”

Almost unable to comprehend what Bennett’s just told her, Lexi rolls the words over in her head. “You’re getting into and out of your apartment through the _trash chute_? You’re joking. Is that joke?”

“I mean... No? It’s wide enough. Not hard to get into. One of the old ones that dumps right into the alley behind my building.”

Lexi buries her head in her hands and tries to rub the tension out of her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just... I’m thinking about the germs.”

“ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?”

“The germs,” she moans again. The germs are Lexi’s primary concern only because her brain can’t even process the full absurdity of what she’s just been told. “What about all those times you didn’t shower and we shared a bed? Is there trash... residue, on my sheets?”

“I gotta do what must be done.”

“No, no no,” Lexi shakes her head vigorously. “ ‘Doing what needs to be done’ does not mean climbing through a trash chute to get inside your own home. Move into a motel. I mean, how... How do you even fit in the chute? You’re, like, six feet tall.”

“I just go through it to get in on the ground level. It’s like I’m climbing all the way up to my floor,” Bennett tries to rationalize. “It’s really not that hard. Just move through it like a ferret.”

“What the fuck...”

This is the woman Lexi has fallen in love with. So, yeah, that’s where she’s at right now. And this doesn’t even crack the top ten list of craziest things since Bennett and this case came crashing into her life.

“You’re nuts, Bennett.”

“You love it, Howard.”

Bennett’s right. Lexi does love it. That’s the sad part.

Another blink and Lexi’s in bed staring up at the ceiling. 2:00 AM. What time did she get here? How long has she been lying awake? Did she ever fall asleep? Probably not. She doesn’t _want_ to sleep, for fear of another dream that she’d have to handle alone.

Her stomach’s in knots, her chest tight like the air’s trapped in her lungs. The shadows in her room bear vague threats of lurking danger. Something’s definitely, terribly wrong.

Her nose itches, and when she rubs it with her wrist that all-too-familiar set of smell and sensation wallops her. Blood. Her nose is bleeding. Fuck. That’s just great. And it’s all over her pillow too. Even better. Her own nose is gonna trigger a damn flashback if she doesn’t get this blood off her skin and out of her nostril.

Once in the shower she just spaces out again. Can’t even keep her head straight. How is she supposed to do her job when her mind keeps shifting like sand? This case is bringing out the worst in her.

She leans forward against the shower wall, her hands padding her head against the tile, hot water running over her back. Her mind unavoidably drifts to Bennett, the center of gravity.

_“You’ll get your next assignment. Hopefully I’ll get my job back.”_

Damn it. Nope. That hurts too much.

_“We can say hi to some of your cartel friends.”_

Wow. Even worse. _What the hell, Lex?_ She bumps her head against the wall and grits her teeth. _Stop thinking shitty things_.

Searching for relief, she focuses her thoughts on the last time she was able to find it. Thanks to Bennett, of course. Always Bennett.

_The backseat of the detective’s car wasn’t Lexi’s first choice of places to “fool around”, but she wasn’t about to be picky. In fact, there are very few imaginable situations where she would turn down the chance to make out with her partner. And since they became an item, she hadn’t turned down the opportunity one time._

_Still, until that night such opportunities had been confined to Lexi’s apartment with them cozied up on her couch or bed. Neither of them were exactly comfy here in the backseat, side-by-side and leaned up against the backrest._

_This would never get old, Lexi decided. Each touch, each kiss was just as electrifying as the first time their lips met a few weeks before. Since then, these moments between them had only gotten better as they learned each other’s tics._

_Tonight Bennett was getting handsy, and it was driving Lexi crazy. Bennett probably knew it was driving Lexi crazy, because Bennett is a fucking tease and thought it was “cute” to see Lexi get all hot and bothered. But it wasn’t an act for the agent. She was desperate for this closeness, especially after Bennett basically rejected a commitment only a few minutes before._

_That fucking hurt. Later, in private, she’d cry over it. But for now she’d take anything Bennett was willing to give. Sad? Sure. But Lexi’s human, and when Bennett was kissing her neck and palming her ass, “no” was the last word that came to mind._

_This was the kind of quiet that wasn’t quiet at all, filled with hushed, heavy breathing and the smacks of their kisses. Lexi had latched on to Bennett’s hips, occasionally running her fingers along the outside of Bennett’s thigh. She tilted her head back as Bennett pecked under her jaw with enough force to leave a mark in the morning. Unable to keep it contained, Lexi moaned weakly._

_Bennett paused and drew back and looked her up and down, lips wet and eyes wild. “If we weren’t in a car, do you know what I’d do right now?”_

_“Tell me.” Lexi’s heart was thudding, blood rushing into her face._

_The detective leaned forward and kissed her just under her earlobe. “I’d push you back, and roll those panties down...” she whispered into her ear with hot breath, “and get a good feel for you. Learn what_ really _turns you on.”_

_That was too much for Lexi. Those words overpowered her relative restraint with the same untapped, carnal longing which drove her to push Bennett against a wall and kiss her that first night._

_“I’ll show you myself,” she chipped back, quickly straddling Bennett’s lap. As they kissed again, Lexi’s hands found the center of Bennett’s chest and worked their way down, quickly undoing each button of her partner’s blouse._

_Eagerly reciprocating, Bennett slid the suspenders off of Lexi’s shoulders and started to fumble with her buttons. “Shit, yours are hard to undo.”_

_Without a second thought Lexi pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it to the floorboard. Her hair was left mussed, and her skin welled with goosebumps as Bennett’s fingers drifted across Lexi’s now-exposed lower back._

_As they kissed again Lexi circled atop Bennett’s bralette with the tips of her fingers. She could feel quiver slightly and her nipples harden at the teasing touch._

_“This okay?”_

_A flushed and breathless Bennett nodded quickly. “Yes please.”_

_Pleased by the response, Lexi raked her hands behind Bennett’s back, noting that Bennett’s skin was slick with sweat and stuck to the leather seat. The trail of bare skin under her fingers was interrupted by a bra strap that Bennett definitely shouldn’t still have on. Lexi unfixed the clasp and Bennett slung it off without a second thought._

_While Bennett moved between Lexi’s collarbone and neck with alternating fast and slow kisses, Lexi stroked the side of Bennett’s breast with an occasional, gentle squeeze before moving to pinch and pull her nipples. Bennett was breathing hard and faltering between her kisses now, clearly hot and bothered too. Well-deserved payback._

_But Bennett wouldn’t succumb so easily yet. She surged up and kissed Lexi on the mouth again, teeth grazing Lexi’s bottom lip until she bit down gently and pulled. Now they French kissed, deep and bruising, tongues rolling against the other. Grinding against Bennett, Lexi could feel the pressure between her own thighs building. Bennett’s arm flung against the back of the driver’s seat as she gasped._

_“Holy shit, Lex!”_

_They could be so much more. Should be more. But they weren’t, and wouldn’t be. A bitter taste of reality that Lexi needed to rid herself of. As soon as they both caught their breath, Lexi cradled Bennett’s head with both hands. She down into those hazel eyes that glinted up at Lexi with surprise and reverence. Then they were French kissing again._

_Bennett’s an excellent kisser. Lexi’s thankful to know this firsthand. It drives her crazy—in a good way, of course—the way Bennett always holds her face when they kiss, her hand against Lexi’s hot cheek. The touch steadied her while her mind frenzied with excitement._

_“I love this,” Bennett cooed as she ran her fingers through Lexi’s hair._

_Bennett loved_ this _, not_ her _, she reminded herself. Swap her out with someone else (Jules) and Bennett would enjoy this at least just as much._

_Lexi should’ve pulled away. But she didn’t._

* * *

Memory is a tenuous respite. Reality, if that’s what you call this present state, always imposes itself sooner or later.

Lexi’s back on Bennett’s block this evening. It’s getting dark later as the days drift by, providing enough light to surveil a bit longer. She’s also procrastinating. Bennett just texted her about a major breakthrough that Lexi will have to hear all about when she gets home. Frankly, case talk is the last thing she wants on her mind.

Not that she has good reason to complain. The fact that she gets to go home and see Bennett at all is a true gift. But it also hurts when she remembers it’s not going to last.

She can’t wax poetic about it anymore. It just sucks. It’s fucking painful. No other way to describe it. Bennett fills her heart and breaks it again in an endless, agonizing cycle. If sheer force of will could earn someone’s love, Bennett would love her back. But best intentions aren’t enough. Bennett isn’t hers, never was, never will be.

Of course, despite knowing all of this, the heartache won’t stop Lexi from loving that woman. Or protecting her, either. Which is why she comes here, looking for nothing, sitting on this roof just to feel like she’s providing the detective some assurance of safety. She can’t stand the idea of allowing any inadequacy on her part that would lead to another tragedy. It’ll be the nightmarish fallout of Salinas all over again. One loss was too much. Another would be unbearable.

She looks down from her perch. Eight stories. 112 feet. Hell of a long way to fall. She realizes she forgot to breathe again when her chest starts to seize.

The gravel crunches behind her and she whirls around, hand on her sidearm, eyes rapidly scanning the rooftop. No one in sight. Even after she recognizes that she’s alone, that there’s no imminent danger, it takes her several minutes for her brain to accept this as true. Until then her muscles are tensed, hand near her gun, while she fights the bad memories trying to claw their way up to the surface.

What the hell’s wrong with her? Why can’t she keep it contained? For two years she’d handled things by not handling them, and it worked fine. Not great, but fine. It was livable for the moment. Not anymore. Now too much is coming to the surface at once, cumbersome and crippling and pulling her under the surface like a riptide. No wonder she can’t catch her breath when she’s navigating through endless waves of anxiety and exhaustion.

Just as she’s standing up to leave, she tabs a man in a ball cap and sunglasses leaving the building opposite Bennett’s. He fits the rough physical description, though it looks like he drives a white truck and not a brown sedan. For a reason she can’t quite place, she snaps some pictures anyway.

* * *

Lexi’s head is still spinning when she gets home. The first thing she notices is the papers spread out over the floor in the main room, the sight of the clutter immediately stresses her out. This goes unnoticed by Bennett, who flashes her the usual crazed look that the detective maintains when she thinks she’s onto something.

”We’ve got a big problem.” Bennett looks at her notes and shakes her head in disbelief.

Of course they do. A lot of big problems, actually. And right now Lexi doesn’t have the capacity to handle a single one of them. If only she could strip off her skin and not exist for a while, because she’s on pins and needles and horribly uncomfortable in this new reality.

“Can we give it a rest tonight?”

“What if, now just hear me out... What if the real Strangler’s a LEO?”

The words impact Lexi like a slap to the face. She stands incredulous, waiting for Bennett to say she’s joking or hasn’t thought it through. But Bennett doesn’t break, so Lexi starts to laugh feverishly. Just more proof none of this is real.

“Seriously,” Bennett chides with a scowl, “why is it that when we started working the case, the murders stopped? This guy had nearly two dozen murders before you and I came into this. After we got this assignment? One death. We started and the murders stopped. No way that’s a coincidence.”

“Well we should just keep this case open forever then. No one will die if the case is never closed. Perfect, I just solved all our problems.”

“I’m not joking! I’m putting this all together and it ain’t adding up. First,” Bennett counts on her fingers, “we’ve got the witness who basically implied she’s being blackmailed. Then we’ve got a suspect who doesn’t even match the descriptions.”

This is all too much. Trying to set some distance from the conversation, Lexi retreats across the room. Bennett follows her into the corner, speaking rapid-fire now. “Oh, what about how long it took to get the results back from the hair testing? And remember when all our work got jumbled up after Tyler became a suspect? That set us back weeks. What if that was _tampering_?”

Lexi turns around, cornered by the detective and nowhere to run, and looks at Bennett closely. This nut job actually believes what she’s saying. There’s that weird feeling again. Nausea? Dread? It’s working her way up inside of her, building slowly once more, constricting her breath and clouding her mind. She’s trapped and there’s no way out. For some reason, though the context doesn’t demand it, Lexi’s mind drifts to Cassie.

Bennett tries to double down, though Lexi’s not listening anymore. “Since we started this case you and I both knew something was off—.”

“This is not a goddamn conspiracy!” The voice is unrecognizable but it must be Lexi’s.

A visibly alarmed Bennett takes a step back from her like Lexi’s rigged to blow. Bennett’s afraid of her. But there’s nothing she can do. The pressure, the tension, whatever you call this agony... She can’t stuff it back, can’t control its release. This time it’s too much. 

“You... You think this is all some elaborate setup? Are you goddamn kidding me? That’s what this has come to—the Strangler’s a LEO now?” She starts to gulp, the air trapped inside her chest again. “That is fucking delusional, Bennett. I’m not saying... you’re delusional. You... are not delusional. But that theory is.”

She stops and gulps for air. _Hard to breathe. Hard to breathe._ Why is she still talking when the whole building’s about to come down soon anyway? Something’s bound to happen the way these walls are trembling against the foundation.

“I have... I’ve— We’ve been... for months and I... Fuck! I can’t— I can’t...” Her gulps turn to gasps but there’s still not enough air in the room. Reality’s slipping again. She clinches her eyes shut so she only sees static.

She pulls at her hair, claws at her scalp to draw blood, as if the pain can alter the course of her thoughts. But it’s too late. She’s back there again. She can hear, see, even smell it all happening in real time: clammy skin and glassy eyes and rattling breaths and all that goddamn blood—soaking the grass and her shirt and shoes and lap and even in her own hair. Just like in the nightmares, but this time she’s awake and feeling everything again. The fear, the grief, the shock and rage... all at once and far too much. Tears start to fall but they don’t seem like her own.

Hands seize Lexi’s wrists and begin to peel her fingers from her scalp. The touch makes her flinch, terrified of this new external threat, but the hold won’t release when she tries to pull away. Her mind begs her to escape whatever’s restraining her so she thrashes against it, fighting it furiously, ready to harm this threat if that’s what it takes to defend herself. It doesn’t work. The grip only firms up and pins her wrists against her chest, holding her from behind with strong arms, rendering her powerless. She’s so weak.

Her legs give out but she doesn’t collapse, slowly sinking to the floor like her weight’s being supported. Somehow, though her mind’s still a frenzy, her body wises up and tells her to stop fighting the hold, she can trust at least that much. She opens her mouth and tries to yell but the sound comes out as more of a strangled wail, a release of pure frustration and sorrow.

“Let it out.”

Hands rub circles on Lexi’s back as she heaves a wracked sob. She catches her breath, her face now hot and tight. Her heart is still racing and her brain is still fighting the impulse to push this person off of her.

Bennett. It’s Bennett. Bennett’s here. She can’t push Bennett away. So she does the only thing she can do in this place and time. She lets it all out.

* * *

Even after Lexi wakes up, her brain doesn’t start working for a long time. That’s the way she’d prefer it. Her brain hasn’t done her any favors lately and she’s tired of battling it for control. But right now she doesn’t have to fight. She’s sated and sleepy. Disaster is not imminent. She’s safe in her own bed.

She can smell Bennett’s shampoo. It reminds her that she’s just been dreaming about her partner—a good dream, not a nightmare. She stirs and realizes Bennett’s pressed up right against her, spooning her with arms tight around her waist and their legs tangled up. For a long time she pretends nothing exists outside of this. Bennett’s light breaths against the top of Lexi’s head are the only marks of passing time.

“What time is it?” Lexi finally asks, her voice groggy from disuse.

“5:30.”

“Shit, I’m running late—.”

“In the evening.”

“What?”

“Mhmm. You were asleep for 20 hours.”

“My boss is gonna kill me.”

“You woke up in the middle of the night and emailed him. Told him you were sick. Probably don’t remember it because you were half asleep.”

Though she feels a strong impulse to jump out of bed and get to work, she can’t bring herself to leave the safe cocoon Bennett’s created for her. The detective rubs her thumb against the back of Lexi’s hand. Settling down, she eases into Bennett’s hold and enjoys their closeness.

“Why aren’t you at work?” Lexi asks when she realizes this is far earlier than the usual time Bennett gets to her place.

“Took the day off.”

“Why?”

“To be here.”

Lexi accepts the answer silently. It occurs to her that, rather than speeches or grand gestures, this is the way Bennett shows she cares and that she’s here to help. What she can’t say otherwise, she tells Lexi through her presence and her touch. Her own simple, special language.

She grasps on to Bennett’s hand and their fingers intertwine. This particular hold takes her back to another memory, sometime recent and warm, when she felt safe with their hands locked tightly together.

* * *

Despite being nearly comatose for the prior 24 hours, Lexi gets another good night’s sleep in after dinner. She wakes up tired, but the weight on her back feels a little lighter. Just a little. Somewhere in the sleep she gained a glimpse of lucidity about herself and what she needs to do. Now she needs to hold on.

She goes running for the first time in weeks. She’s completely winded within the first few blocks but keeps going until she finishes her normal route. Her shower this morning is brisk; no time to ruminate while her head’s clear. Then she calls in sick again. One day off is an aberration, but two? Unprecedented. There’s a first time for everything. She’s still fragile today, and she needs time to rest, think, prepare herself for what has to happen.

She finds Bennett in the main room again, going back through the files splashed out all over the place. When Bennett looks up and see Lexi standing in front of her she smiles genuinely.

“How are you?”

“Better.” Lexi takes a seat on the couch and Bennett joins her, picking up Lexi’s hand and absently playing with her fingers.

“Was this my fault?” Bennett doesn’t meet Lexi’s eyes, but her brow is knit in concern.

“No. God no. That... was a long time coming.”

Bennett’s theory was just the tipping point. It wasn’t her fault that Lexi’s been trying to carry too much for years, holding too much in and not giving enough back to herself.

Bennett waits a long time before she speaks again, slowly this time. “I know I’m not the most credible source of advice for mental hygiene, but it’d be really good for you to start seeing a therapist. I know it’s not a quick fix for what you’re going through. It’ll take some work. But it’s helpful. Look, I go to one at the precinct. I mean, it’s kind of mandatory for me… but it’s still helpful. Just want to throw that out there. Because I want to see you okay. Like, actually okay and not pretending.”

Seems like so long ago that McKay gave her the exact same advice. This time she’s not going to argue. She wants to see herself okay.

“I’m taking a leave of absence from the Bureau,” Lexi states simply. “I can’t keep doing this case. I have to stop for a while. And that includes helping you with your theory.”

“What are you saying?” Bennett’s calm façade breaks into panic, her eyes darting to her partner.

Lexi holds firm and continues after a deep breath. “This case, this double life… It’s too hard. I’m basically working two jobs anyway between our partnership and the FBI. I need to take care of myself first because I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams—,” she trips over her words and swallows the rising fear. “I’m not doing well. I wish I could talk about what happened that made me like this. Usually I can’t even think about it. But that has to change. I can’t live like this.”

Though visibly saddened, her partner squeezes Lexi’s hand and gives her a smile. She hates this look Bennett’s giving her, as if Lexi’s a wounded animal.

“You deserve better.”

“I deserve _clarity_. With us. Because… It’s too hard being stuck in the middle.” She swallows and lets her mouth and mind sync up, so that she can say exactly what she means. “This was never just a fling between partners for me. Since this whole thing started, I’ve been in this for you. I don’t want just Bennett and Howard anymore. I want Rue and Lexi. I want _you_.”

Bennett doesn’t appear surprised by what she’s just been told. Nor does she look upset. Her fingers twitch like she wants to tap them against her palm, but she stops herself. “I mean, I would ask why but I think that’s beside the point.” The detective’s eyes move back and forth quickly like she’s reading off a page. “I’m not that good at communicating. That’s probably obvious. I think it’s because, y’know, because I’m a coward.”

Lexi smirks, which appears to lighten Bennett up a bit.

“I thought there was nothing left after Jules. That was it,” she continues. “Then I got the case, and I thought my job was my last shot at something good. Then, my god... you came out of nowhere, and all the sudden...” She sputters and lets out a breathless laugh. “You’ve got me terrified. And I can’t figure out how you make me feel the same things as Jules, in a completely different way.”

As Bennett speaks, her expression dissolves from contemplative to anxious, her voice starting to tremble. This state of naked insecurity is discomforting to see from the detective, and Lexi wonders if this is the same way Bennett felt witnessing Lexi break down—heartbroken, sick with the knowledge that she’s relatively helpless to fix her partner’s wounds.

“It doesn’t feel right,” Bennett continues, “because you’re this incredible person and you’re too good for me. I don’t deserve it, and I’m scared I’m gonna screw it up. I’m actually kind of freaking out about it.”

Bennett’s voice breaks as a tear escapes, which she immediately wipes away. “Don’t give up on me.” Then she drapes herself over Lexi and clings to her like a lifeline. Lexi holds her just as tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I wasn’t gonna include that back seat scene. In retrospect that would’ve been deeply wrong of me. But honestly your feedback is always really important in helping me shape the story so thank you!


	29. Ties That Bind

Sometime after the wolf hunt and before his knee injury, Nate came around to see the utility of violence. He didn’t appreciate the artistry that it demands or the beauty that it yields. Not yet. He could, however, grasp why violence occurs and why it’s necessary.

The education began in earnest when he found Cal’s home films. That was hard for little Nate to wrap his head around at first.

Based on the care taken to try to hide the DVDs, his father didn’t want anyone seeing what he did with these people. Nate just didn’t know why. He didn’t even know what he was seeing besides strange, naked forms and bizarre actions.

But finally, in the context of the mountaintop lesson, it began to make sense. Cal had told him of man’s dominion and the natural order, and here that theory was proven into law. Nate watched the gagging and choking and slapping, the degradation his father would inflict on these people and the servile way they would respond. This was submission to power; adherence to the natural order.

Nate’s education in power and force continued into middle and high school. As child of the early Internet he found that violence was readily available as entertainment. He absorbed hours upon hours of murders, executions, suicides, mutilations, sexual crimes, and every imaginable form of deviance captured on camera. He didn’t see anything inherently wrong with these videos, though they scared him at first. He’d always known the world’s a cruel place, and now he was simply witnessing the extent firsthand. Eventually he built a tolerance to the stomach-wrenching gore and could finally and fully understand.

Force is biological—humans adhere to the same natural hierarchy that governs all animal life. We organize ourselves by desirability, capability, and status. We maintain that order as an evolutionary imperative. That’s why violence works: it’s enforcement of the natural order. We instinctively recognize and respect it, and fall into line in response. The strongest stand at the top of this pecking order. Anyone below is just waiting to get trampled.

Nate always knew where he stood in the pecking order. He wouldn’t slip below the top. It was the reason he always wanted to measure his success by achievements that others would recognize and respect. Football, his original vehicle for gaining these achievements, was a culturally accepted pursuit. Now the world sees his success, the beauty of his Ritual, but they’re disgusted with it. They fear it. Almost no one understands him or what he does. Those who do must be protected and cherished above all.

* * *

Nate steers his truck into the empty lot, flashes his lights across the darkness and waits.

And waits. And waits.

Typically he’d be irate at the lack of punctuality, but for now he holds his anger back. He needs to keep his emotions contained for more important matters.

He stiffens when he finally hears footsteps approaching the truck. The passenger door swings open and the cabin fills with light, illumining Maddy as she slides into the front seat.

“Hey stranger.”

She leans over the console, pecks him on the lips with a sly grin.

“Hey beautiful,” Nate greets as he takes her hand in his. “Any news for me?”

“Seriously, that’s the first thing you say to me? I haven’t seen you in like a week.”

“Just want to get business out of the way first.”

The hurt in Maddy’s eyes flashes clearly but she carries on with business. “Bennett’s moved her shit offsite,” she finally tells him. “The work board, the files, the notes, everything. It’s all gone.”

Though the news disturbs his equilibrium with a surge of panic, he wears a stoic mask. “When did this happen?”

“Last night.”

“Do you know where she took it?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to be following her,” she snaps at him. He’s pushing his luck with her tonight.

“I am. I’m trying to,” he corrects after a pause. “She’s... brilliantly evasive.”

“Wow. Well I don’t want to get between the two of you.” Maddy turns to the window and crosses her arms tightly, pulling her hand away from his.

“You know that’s not what I meant, babe.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Maddy is as close to perfect as any woman on the planet. That being said, there are certain things that he can’t stand about her. She takes the smallest misspeak, latches on, and amplifies it into a bigger problem than it should be. He never understands why she gets so hung up on conflicts. Maybe she’s trying to gain leverage against him, something to hold over him for the sake of conflict.

He grabs her hand back, choosing to play the role of adult and ignore her tantrum. “If she moved the casework out of the office, it means she doesn’t trust it being kept there anymore. You and Daniel were the original case leads, so you two be the first ones she’ll suspect.”

“Of course she knows someone’s fucking with her. I stole her files. Rearranged her little vision board. Did everything you wanted me to. Never complained about it. And what do we have to show for it now?”

“Just… calm down. She probably stashed all the casework with the agent.”

“Howard?” Maddy leans forward with a furrowed brow and incredulous expression. “They’re not partners anymore. Why would she take it to the agent?”

“Because they’re sleeping together.”

“Don’t be a perv, Nate.”

“I’m serious.”

“No fucking way.”

“You didn’t know because you haven’t been doing your part of the job,” he chastises her. “You were supposed to watch the agent and I would watch the detective. That was the deal.”

She growls and tosses her hands up, breaking their hold again. “Oh my god, my _job_? I already have a damn job, _and_ I’m covering your ass too. If I hadn’t switched those hair samples from the shower drain you’d already be in prison.”

“I don’t want to be in this situation any more than you do. But I’m the only one trying to fix this,” he tries to reason with her.

“Okay. And I’m just trying to have a conversation.”

The conversation rests on a brief, tense silence before Nate speaks up again. “Do you think I like having to do all this? I’m doing it for you. I’m trying to protect you.”

“Are you?” Maddy looks at him intently, shakes her head and turns to the window again. “You’re always at work or out doing weird shit. I never get to see you anymore. It’s like we barely even talk unless it’s about the stupid fucking case.”

He can feel the gap growing again and scrambles to seal it. “I’m sorry. Look, let’s go to the motel, talk it out.”

“I know what ‘talk it out’ means, Nate.” Maddy sighs deeply and thinks for a moment, then shoots him a penetrating glare. “Fine. You have to buy me Taco Bell after.”

* * *

Sometimes Nate worries he’s addicted to sex with Maddy.

He hates the idea. Addiction is weakness, and weakness is intolerable. But sex is a very rare instance when the reward is worth tolerating a potential deficiency (another lesson his father had taught him, unbeknownst to Cal).

The surge of endorphins hits the same whether he’s riding Maddy or completing his Ritual. And since he doesn’t get to do much of the latter these days, sex is the only way to earn the ever-elusive high. Tonight was an average performance by his personal standard. She seemed to enjoy it anyway. He watches her primp in the mirror, admires her trim figure, wonders if she tries to look nice for him or if she’s just vain.

Maddy turns around to look at him, then back to the mirror. “What if she got an anonymous letter? Of if something was slipped under her door? Just to fuck with her and make her sound really crazy?”

“No, no physical evidence,” he refutes. “The moment she has something she can touch, it all becomes legit. We have to keep playing head games with her. Play into the deniability. Make her think she’s crazy.”

“What are we supposed to do, keep sitting outside her house? You said you can barely find her ‘cause she’s a _master of evasion_ or whatever.”

“Maybe we need to target the agent first instead,” he brainstorms aloud as he checks his phone. “That puts the detective on the run, stalls her case, buys us some time. Then we handle them both. Wait, no. Shitty idea.”

Maddy stares at him from the mirror’s reflection without turning around. “Bennett’s not gonna stop no matter what. And Howard’s harmless now anyway. She got taken off Tyler’s case.”

“What?” He whips his head up from his phone and stares her down. “Why?”

“My buddy in Bureau HR said they had to put her on disability leave. That’s all I know. And no I’m not gonna ask him why, because I don’t know the guy that well and it’d be weird and sus.”

“Disability leave,” Nate repeats to himself, rubbing his chin.

Maddy checks herself in the mirror one more time and fluffs her hair before she rejoins Nate in bed, rubbing her hand on his chest. “You think it’s a feint?”

“Doubt it.”

“I thought you’d be happy,” she coos, running fingers through his hair now. “One down, one to go.”

Nate shakes his head. “The wrong person’s off the case. The agent was harmless as long as she thought Clarkson was guilty. Bennett’s the one we need gone.”

“What do I need to do?” Though Maddy’s eyes are soft, the edge in her voice is clear.

“Nothing for now.”

He looks down at her and tries to read her expression. “You’re the only one who understands,” he whispers down to her. She hums, leans up and kisses him.

“Let’s just split town before they can find us. Be done with all this.”

Nate can tell that Maddy’s growing sick of the gambit, though they both know they can’t stop now.

“I have to finish what I started.” He climbs out of bed and heads to the shower, leaving her on her own.

* * *

Nate scrubs himself with a loopha until his skin is almost raw, imagining the germs and bacteria sloughing off his body. Motel rooms are incubators for disease, and it’s a small wonder he or Maddy haven’t gotten seriously ill from one of their many rendezvouses here.

Maddy deserves better than secret motel sex. Somehow she sticks around, a small marvel that swells his heart with respect. He doesn’t need to get picky or try and change her. Maddy’s already as close to the ideal as a woman can get. She knows him fully and embraces him where anyone else would turn away. She respects the beauty he creates. She knows him and still loves him.

And he loves her too. It wasn’t until he met her, that he realized he’d never loved anyone before her. He didn’t even know he was capable of feeling that. So he’s become whatever she needs to be, the man of her dreams. She wanted someone to provide for her, so he lavished her with his time, attention and thoughtful gifts. She wanted someone to love her, so he loved her so intensely he devoured her. She wanted someone to protect her, so he killed for her—all those men who gave him a wrong look, or made a perverted comment. He took them out for her.

After all they’ve been through, it’s really not fair that they have to hide like this: resorting to illicit trysts in dirty motel rooms away from prying eyes. The world doesn’t understand him or what he does, and Maddy has to pay the price like she bears a scarlet letter.

There’s this odd sensation, and he wasn’t sure what to name it, but he thinks he knows know. This is real fear. He’d almost forgotten the what that felt like, and it’s a bit invigorating. Even enjoyable. Provided, of course, that the threat stays contained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting for this for so long


	30. Dancing in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on my angsty shit this week

“Bennett, this isn’t a library. You can’t just check out evidence and take it home. Bring the casework back to the precinct. All of it.”

Even through the phone Rue knows the exact face the Captain’s making right now: lips tight and thin, left eyebrow cocked and eyes burning. It’s a face she’s seen many times that pairs with his frustrated tone. The man is not happy.

“Can you give me an office with a locking door?”

“We can talk about it. Just come back to the precinct.”

It’s a nice try, but there’s still no way in hell Rue’s going back there. It’s too risky. “I… I can’t, Captain. Promise I’ll explain later.”

“Benn—.”

She ends the call and instantly regrets hanging up on her boss. If she worked for anyone but Ali, Rue would already be out of a job. Then again, it’s because of Ali that she even got a second (and probably last) chance with this case. Now she’s blowing it and pissing him off in the process. He probably seriously regrets bringing her back, but Rue can’t worry about damaged relationships now. The risk of being right, and not doing anything about it, is too great.

That’s how she finds herself here: holed up among boxes and stacks of casework almost as tall as her, hiding in a dank ten-by-ten storage facility. If she thought the conference room was bad, she’s definitely learned her lesson. Should’ve savored the good ole days when she actually got to work out of an office with proper lighting and air conditioning instead of a tiny locker lit by one overhead bulb.

Even if she doesn’t enjoy it, Rue can handle to a bad work environment. Creature comforts have never been a necessity for her. The real adjustment, one far more difficult, is working the case by herself. What she wouldn’t give to have her partner back.

Though Rue knows that feelings are often irrational, and that she’s closer than ever to finding the real Strangler, this sure feels like a real low point. But there’s no way she can take chances at this stage in the game. She’s making her last stand, and if it has to be in a tiny storage locker hiding from her own coworkers, so be it.

Before she leaves she snaps a picture of the composite sketch taped up on the wall, and makes a mental note to ask Howard if he looks familiar. No trying to give her casework. No stressing her out, of course. Just a quick question. Rue has to find this handsome motherfucker if it takes every last ounce of professional skill and effort she has. She has to end this right. For her sake, and for Lexi’s. Until then, neither of them are safe.

* * *

_Killing In the Name_ blasts over the speaker at full volume while Rue drums her hands against the steering wheel. In the narrow windows of time throughout the day, these are the best methods she has to blow off steam and keep herself from getting overwhelmed.

God, she’s missed her car. It’s honestly worth the risk of being followed, and good luck keeping up with her when she drives like a fugitive on the run. Though she’d gotten used to the bus, or didn’t absolutely dread riding it anymore, there’s something restorative about driving alone, enjoying the time on her own, clearing her mind. Turns out working the case is the easy part of her day. The rest of the time, she’s out of her element.

* * *

Rue pulls the curtains open to let some light into the bedroom, then sits on the side of the bed and stares down at the form under the covers. Without an expression creased with worry, Lexi looks refreshingly peaceful when she sleeps. Rue hates to disturb her. After some hesitation, she shakes her shoulder to wake her up. The agent doesn’t respond at first, still zonked out. When she finally comes to, she just stares with tired, glassy eyes that lack any recognition and make Rue’s heart ache.

“Can you sit up?”

She tries to hide under the blankets, which Rue stops by leaning down, hugging her, and pulling her up to sit upright.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Now your feet on the floor.”

There’s about a five second delay before the words register. Finally Lexi swallows hard and shuts her eyes, pouring every ounce of concentration into the task assigned to her, but it’s still a painful process. In this new emotional landscape there are good days and bad days, an uneven flow with which Rue understands well.

“Here.” Rue hands her a coffee cup and studies her for any signs of a positive reaction.

Lexi just shakes her head. “No coffee.”

“It’s juice. I just know you like the cup, so...”

The agent’s mouth twitches into a brief smile that fades just as fast, though she accepts the drink.

Evidently this is a bad day. That’s usually the case after one of her doctor’s appointments. She probably hasn’t gotten out of bed since then, so she needs to get up and move for her own good. “Let’s take a walk,” Rue suggests to her exhausted partner. “Just a short one.”

“It’s not safe.”

“It is with me. Come on.”

They look at each other for a long time, waiting each other out in a silent battle of wills.

It’s hard to get up and face the world—Rue gets that. When you’re in a bad state of mind, bed is a sanctuary relative to the rest of the world. In the long run, though, hiding under the covers just makes you more isolated and therefore more depressed. Rue gets that, too.

While Lexi dithers on the edge of the bed, Rue rubs her partner’s forearm in reassurance. Though she’s sometimes hesitant to touch Lexi, fearing it could upset her, the physical contact is important to bridge the mental disconnect.

“You gonna make excuses all day,” Rue challenges, “or you gonna come get some fresh air?”

Her persistence doesn’t convince Lexi so much as wear her out.

When they step outside her partner blinks like she hasn’t seen the sun in ages. Though it’s not cold she’s wearing Rue’s trench coat, wrapped tightly around herself like a shell, and her hands wring in the waist pockets. They shuffle slowly down the street, arm in arm. The way that couples walk.

Rue’s embraced about the newfound status though she’s still not really used to it. In retrospect making it official was inevitable, but at the time it felt like an insurmountable challenge. Lexi had taken her by surprise on that day, demonstrating a surprising amount of coherency for someone who broke down the night before. Rue respected the directness and tried to reciprocate, though she couldn’t articulate herself as well. She’s just not as good at words as her partner.

“How’re you feeling?” Rue ventures after some hesitation. Per the new usual, it takes Lexi a few seconds to gather a reply.

“My brain keeps... shivering?”

“Brain zaps, yeah. That’s normal when you’re adjusting to new meds. Hurts like a bitch.”

“How long?”

“They’ll go away eventually. You gotta feel worse before you feel better,” Rue assures her. “Just don’t drive or operate heavy machinery for now.”

Lexi hums, a small smile gracing her lips. “No promises.”

They spend a few minutes walking in silence, as she assumes Lexi’s not up to small talk today. Rue has to watch for danger, though it’s hard to take her eyes of her partner. She stays alert for tall white boys, fancy brown cars, anyone who gives them a funny look.

“Rue?”

“Lexi?”

“Are you okay?”

Rue turns to face her partner, then looks forward when Lexi doesn’t meet her gaze. “Do I not seem okay?”

“You’re quiet. It’s weird when you’re quiet.”

 _Am I okay?_ She’s spent so much time worrying if Lexi was okay that she hadn’t asked herself the same question.

Depends on the definition of ‘okay’. Rue’s okay in the sense that she’s not actively grappling with depression and she doesn’t have PTSD. That’s not a very high bar, she knows, but it could always be worse. “I’m just worried about the case,” she states concisely.

She debates whether to show Lexi the sketch, worried it might trigger something, but figures it’s too important to put off. She zooms into the picture and hands her phone to Lexi.

“Check it out.”

“Who is that?”

“Composite of the Strangler. Look familiar?”

Lexi stops walking, staring down at the screen as she tilts her head. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t... I don’t know.” The hint of stress in her partner’s voice is enough for Rue to take the phone back and immediately shut down the conversation.

“We’ll worry about it later.”

They spend the rest of the walk in silence, as Rue deems it safer to say nothing than to say the wrong thing. The only thing she can think to discuss is the case, anyway. Her newest question, who’s leaking information from the department, is the most important and most frightening yet and she can’t talk to anyone about it, even Lexi. Especially her.

That doesn’t mean she can’t think about it. She’s narrowed the suspects down to three individuals within her department: the original case leads Daniel Johnson and Maddy Perez, and Custer. Johnson’s about the right size and has a history of predatory behavior. Custer doesn’t fit the physical profile but he supervised the collection of the drain hairs. Obviously Perez isn’t the Strangler, but she could be a mole for him, which is somehow even more troubling. There’s no clear evidence yet, but that doesn’t mean any of them are innocent.

Thinking about this stuff should make her feel complete. This is what she loves, after all. It’s what makes her happy, energizes her, fulfills her. At least she thought it did. Her work was her life for over a decade. Lately it’s feels like a piece of a larger picture, rather than life itself—still important but not everything. Not anymore.

Just when Howard’s almost back, she’s gone again.

The agent’s completely checked out by the time they get back to the apartment and beats a retreat to the bed. One step forward, two steps back.

“You want to watch TV?” Rue hastily offers, trying to stop her. She manages to halt Lexi at the door, though the agent doesn’t turn around.

“Not right now.”

“We can just hang out for a little bit, you and me.”

“I need to be alone.”

Rue sees the dark flash through her eyes, then she takes a deep breath and winces with guilt. Without another word she slinks into her room and shuts the door behind her. It hurts to know that she’ll lie in that bed all night, suffocating in silence until Rue pries her up again.

“I’m gonna run an errand,” she calls through the door. She waits for a response that doesn’t come, then leaves with her head low.

She don’t know her partner’s exact trauma. But she knows the general feeling of fighting your own mind in a losing battle. She knows grief, depression and fear. She wouldn’t wish any of it on her worst enemy. And she didn’t realize how hard it is on the other side, watching someone you care about suffer through the same anguishing rigor.

* * *

Rue drives aimlessly without music. Tonight the thoughts on her mind are too heavy for a soundtrack. In fact, she barely registers that she’s even behind the wheel as she cruises the side roads on mental autopilot.

The idea of going home, pulling that Southern Comfort, and stretching out on her bed for a night of indulgence sounds pretty good after today. It’s easy not to act on that impulse when she knows it’s not worth the cost. Patience is the only way to get through this—which is really inconvenient, because patience has never been Rue’s forte.

Rue pulls off to a side road, turns on her blinkers and leans over her steering wheel. She glances to the empty passenger seat and notices a tiny crack in the window where Lexi had smacked it on the way back from the prison. That moment should’ve told Rue that she was reaching the breaking point.

Actually, Rue did know. It was clear, even before the two of them were close, that Howard had skeletons in her closet. Instead of trying to help, which is what Lexi would have done for her, Rue weaponized the pain by joking about the signpost for Salinas. She knew it would hurt Lexi and she said it anyway. That was another crack in the armor that eventually broke the agent down. And it was Rue’s fault. So why was she surprised when Lexi finally crashed to earth right in front of her?

The memory of that episode, and her decision to intervene, still eats away at Rue. On one hand, she couldn’t stand by and watch while Lexi hurt herself. But the reaction when Rue touched her was so violent that it must have been the wrong move. There was an almost possessed quality to the frenzied way she thrashed against the hold. It was agonizing to witness Lexi’s regression to that base state, stripped of the ability to contain herself. All Rue could do was hold on until she gave out. Now, despite her efforts, her partner’s slipping farther away by the day.

She tells herself Lexi’s still in there somewhere, that Rue’s helping and not hurting. Given her exhausting tendency toward pessimism, Rue’s now trying to reorient herself with positivity when she gets anxious. It’s a tedious new habit, but it’s better than letting her fear of ruining things become a self-fulfilling prophecy. These mantras aren’t always believable, especially on the bad days. 

Rue knows that, not only is her effort insufficient to deal with the problem, but she’s likely making everything worse. A true liability. No matter how hard she tries not to, there’s always the chance she’ll screw up again. It’s what she does best. Everyone who’s bailed out of her life can attest to her talent for inflicting damage.

Takes Jules, for instance. Rue kept drinking when she promised Jules she’d quit. Rue buried herself in the job when Jules needed her. Rue blamed Jules for their problems, despite knowing she was the real source of the conflict, because it was easier to project faults than accept them. It’s actually a miracle Jules stuck around as long as she did. The only reason Lexi hasn’t followed Jules out the door is because she legitimately can’t. Not in her current condition. She’s stuck with Rue, and being stuck with Rue is a very efficient way to make one lose their mind.

As soon as Rue starts to cry she presses the backs of her hands to her eyes. Crying is a waste of time and energy, in her opinion, but this is an instance where she just has to let it happen. What else can she do? How is she supposed to help Lexi when she can’t help herself? You can’t fix other people when you’re broken yourself.

_Rue curled into herself and put her hands over her ears to try to block out the argument, a futile effort when her mom and sister were screaming mere feet away._

_“Obviously there’s something wrong with her and she’s trying to get better.”_

_Gia was right about that. Something_ was _wrong with Rue, though it was debatable whether she was trying to get better. She wasn’t trying to improve so much as make it through the day, and her current methods of doing so weren’t very sustainable. Liquor, weed, and pills weren’t cheap, especially when you have to pay a middleman for them. So she’d stolen $40 to pay Fez back. Big deal._

_“She’s fucking mental. And I’m tired of you using that excuse.”_

_“You think this helps?” Gia continued a valiant defense of her big sister, though everyone in the room knew Leslie was right. Rue was fucking mental from the start. Her mom didn’t need to say the quiet part out loud, but hearing it made it official. This verbal confirmation of mental instability and inherent brokenness burrowed into Rue’s psyche._

_If she had regretted stealing the money before, she didn’t regret it after hearing her mother’s words. The only regret she felt was toward her dad, knowing how disappointed he’d be with her. If he were here, she would apologize to him and only him._

_But her dad wasn’t here anymore. He left her, her mom and Gia. And if he were still here, none of this would be happening, because Rue wouldn’t need booze or weed or pills in the first place._

_But here the three of them were, together and alone, each of them turning on each other. All because of Rue._

* * *

Presence is important—when you’re cut off from the rest of the world, having someone simply there next to you feels like a remarkable gift. So when Rue gets back and finds Lexi asleep again, she flops on the bed, waits for her partner to wake up, and thinks herself into peace.

It’s been a long time since Rue thought about that fight. Years, in fact. The first time she really saw herself as a lost cause. She thought it was up to others to redeem her.

Rue didn’t want to change until she saw the need, harshly exposed by Jules’ departure. Though it doesn’t erase the hurt she felt, she gets it. After fighting a losing battle for years, Jules had to preserve herself by walking away. Now, at least Rue can finally, honestly understands why her family couldn’t, why Jules couldn’t and why Lexi ultimately won’t be her redemption: you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to change. If that’s the case, maybe walking away really is the right thing to do.

More importantly, now that she stands on the other side, Rue knows why she’s not going to do the same thing to Lexi.

When Lexi wakes up hours later, she looks surprised to see Rue. She shouldn’t be.

“You hungry? We can order out or I can make something.”

“Order out,” Lexi replies immediately.

“Wow, I didn’t know my cooking was that bad.”

“It’s not _that_ bad...”

“Nah, I’m messing with you. It really is that bad.”

Lexi throws her arm over Rue in a hug that pushes Rue down next to her. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles into Rue’s shoulder weakly, sapped of energy.

“If you give me one more apology I don’t need, I’m gonna make you eat my cooking.”

It looks like Lexi might speak as she pulls back. Rue can’t help but hope that she’ll finally open up, even a little, about what’s going on in her head. Instead Lexi holds her tongue. That’s okay. Rue can wait.

“You know, I’m proud of you,” she offers. “Considering everything we’ve got going on, I think you’re doing pretty okay.”

Lexi pulls her lips into a sideways frown, visibly confused. “I didn’t do anything.”

That couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I see you, and you’re someone who’s not perfect. Nobody is. But what makes you different is that you still try to be better. It lets me know that I don’t have to be perfect either, as long as I’m trying to be better.”

As soon as she finishes her unexpected speech, she looks down at her partner and feels her heart swell in her chest, almost uncontainable.

Rue’s spent the past few months punishing herself for her failures, and years before that wondering why she wasn’t enough. But maybe there’s no such thing as “enough.” Because Lexi’s love isn’t a transaction. And Lexi does love her. That much is clear.

The idea doesn’t panic Rue, because she feels the same way. She meant what she said—Lexi makes her feel the same way that Jules did years ago. The familiarity all but confirms the reality that Rue loves her too. She knows the symptoms, having experienced it before. This should scare her, but it doesn’t.

Falling in love the first time was a head rush. Falling in love the second time feels like a visit from an old friend, older and wiser and equally warm. It’s true what her mom always said: there’s bad in the good times, and good in the bad times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These POVs were fun but I promise we’re gonna get back to the case now.
> 
> Also - I just watched the trailer for the first bridge episode and they used the song Cigarettes and Coffee by Otis Redding. I freaked out a little because that song is a major inspiration for this story! Just thought that was cool


	31. Mementos Mori

Healing is a valley. Looking across to the next ridge, you can see the other side clear as day—the place you need to be. But to get there you first have to fall down to your lowest point. And then you have to start the climb back up. 

“100 over 53. Diastolic’s a little on the low side,” a nurse comments as she peels a blood pressure cuff off of Lexi’s arm. “Any lower and they might need to take you off the prazosin.”

“I don’t mind that one.” 

Medicine isn’t all that bad. There are upsides, like being able to sleep at night. But the downsides are inevitable. Her brain’s biochemistry is all screwed up now, keeping the world blurry and limiting her field of view so she can’t see the full picture. Talk about bad timing, considering the circumstances. 

“You can discuss it with the doctor. She might want to keep you on it.”

Medication monitoring, side effects, doctors… such are the kinds of problems reserved for retirees, not people in the physical prime of their life. And this clinical stuff is a cakewalk compared to therapy. That’s real work. But Lexi’s no slouch. She’s made progress in it. So why doesn’t she feel better about feeling better? Isn’t that the point of doing this? 

Reality for Lexi is never that simple. There’s a part of her pulling her back to the past, what’s comfortable and familiar. Now, to escape the veil of trauma, she’ll also have to leave behind the memories of those wrapped in it. 

* * *

Rue wasn’t going to do anything weird. All she had to do was sit on their couch and wait patiently for a couple hours tops, let Lexi finish with the psych, and go pick her up. Then they can go on their little adventure. 

But the books on Howard’s bookshelf absolutely demanded they be alphabetized, to the point where Rue started sweating profusely trying to hold herself off. Is this obsession or compulsion? She’s always mixing the two up. 

_Collected Novels of Virginia Woolf, Rethinking Criminal Justice, Feminism is for Everybody._.. When Rue tries to switch the books and fix the order, it thumps against another book shoved behind the rest of the row. 

She pulls it out and reads the title— _The Hidden Staircase_? Rue smiles at the memories the cover evokes, having spent a solid three years reading Nancy Drew over and over again. She examines the worn and well-used copy, similar to the one she used to own but even more worn. Lexi’s full name is written in the inside corner with the unpracticed cursive of an elementary schooler. Careful not to damage the loose binding, she thumbs through the crisp, yellowed pages when a small Polaroid tumbles onto the floor. 

Rue stares at the down at it, hesitant, then looks around before picking it up. Lexi and another girl about the same age stand arm-in-arm on a front lawn. They’re beaming ear-to-ear, backpacks slung over their shoulders, flashing peace signs and a thumb up at the camera. Lexi can’t be older that twelve or thirteen here, and my god, she’s a different person—young, bright-eyed, unprepared for what’s ahead of her. The other girl in the photo bears a resemblance though her ash blond hair sets them apart. Cassie’s first day of school is written in faded pencil on the bottom. Lexi’s sister? Rue had started to wonder if she actually existed. 

Rue glances around again, suddenly uneasy. The picture carries with it a foreboding aura that warns Rue she’s looking at something she’s not meant to see. 

Her phone vibrates, startling her from her thoughts. Time to pick Lexi up. She hides the book again and heads out. After one last look at the picture, she stashes the discovery back in the bookshelf and heads out. 

* * *

Lexi and Rue greet each other with a kiss, leaving the bitter taste of nicotine in Rue’s mouth. Rue gives her a lingering look, mind drifting back to that Polaroid, then sets the car in drive and pulls off of the curb.

Lexi’s on the mend, to Rue’s relief. Obviously the smoking isn’t a great, not that Rue can fault her for the habit. If it helps Lexi on the long climb back up, Rue can’t fault her for picking up a minor vice along the way. 

“You sure you don’t mind doing this with me?” she checks one more time as Lexi buckles herself in. 

“As long as you don’t try to drag me into the case.” 

No more stuck in the middle for Lexi. No more professional conflicts of interest. The Strangler, Tyler Clarkson, whether different people or one in the same... That’s the FBI’s—and Bennett’s—problem now. Her shoulders feel lighter, especially without a gun strapped to them.

Rue steers into the parking lot and parks at the far end, backing into a spot where they can see the restaurant in clear view. She whips out a pair of binoculars and searches the windows until she finds the officer in question, Custer, at a window side seat. 

“Look, he’s right in front of that window. See him there?” Rue asks as she hands the binoculars off to Lexi. 

Lexi’s eyebrows raise above the eye cups when she finally finds him. “That woman’s at least 20 years older than him.”

“Hey, the man’s got his preferences. No shame in that.”

It’s nice having Howard here, even if it’s just for company. Rue talks at her about it, knowing the words will just bounce off of Lexi. 

“So I’ve got it narrowed down to three people in my department,” she starts to ramble. “None of them fit the physical descript, so they must be working with the Strangler. Why they’re doing that? I have no idea. There could be a cash incentive. Maybe he’s blackmailing them. Or they have personal ties. Doesn’t really matter right now.”

“Why Custer?” Lexi can’t help but ask. “I mean, yeah, he’s a creep. But are you going off anything else?”

“When our guys collected those hair samples for you, he signed off on it. Supervised the whole thing.”

“So if anyone was framing Tyler, he would’ve been the one to switch the samples.”

“Bingo,” Rue confirms, aiming a finger gun.

Lexi looks to the lanky figure in the distant window and shakes her head. “He’s not even plain clothes. He doesn’t have the access to tamper with evidence.” 

“I’m still trying to figure the rest out.”

“Yeah, sounds like a real head scratcher.”

“Not helpful.”

“Not my job anymore.”

For someone who’s supposed to be done with the case, Howard sure sounds like she’s thought a lot about it. Rue can’t help but wonder how finished the agent really is with her work. 

“Oh, god. They’re making out.” Shivering in disgust, Lexi tosses the binoculars into Rue’s lap. Bennett chuckles and starts to type out a note on her phone, mumbling more details about the case. 

That’s Lexi’s cue to tune out and try to get her mind on something else. How naturally she falls back into the case she’s supposed to be finished with. 

It’s not really about solving a case, though. It’s about protecting Rue. Put like that, there’s no way Lexi wasn’t going to look into the matter. 

The extra work isn’t what’s best for her. She shouldn’t be thinking about anything but herself. Her therapist told her that by removing herself from the case, she cleared the space necessary to focus fully on her personal recovery. The emotional labor of such a task means her time off of work has been anything but a vacation, forcing a long and difficult assessment of herself. 

“That night I got drunk with my brother in law, I think that’s what started it.”

Blame it on the bottle—Howard’s go-to answer. Lexi’s vendetta against that particular vice that goes back far, a lot longer than Rue’s known her. 

Rue faces her partner, who doesn’t return the look. “Started what?”

“I think that’s when I started to lose it.”

“Regardless.”

“It was one night! You literally had three drinks.”

“That’s all it takes,” Lexi doubles down. “Look at what’s happened since then. I might’ve arrested the wrong guy. I stopped being able to do my job. Had a damn nervous breakdown. It all turned on one night.”

These are the moments when Rue is painfully aware of her inadequacy. What is she supposed to tell Lexi—that she’s not losing it? Hardly convincing coming from someone who can’t clear a psychiatric evaluation to get reinstated. Without wisdom, she only has her honesty. 

“It feels like we’ve known each other a really long time. Like, years. It’s weird.”

Lexi flashes a sideways smile and nods in agreement. The reaction’s enough to encourage Rue to continue even if she’s not sure where she’s going. 

“I don’t think it all started on night,” Rue states, finally getting to her point. “I get that it’s easier to blame it all on one thing, but you were having a hard time way before you went out drinking.”

“I guess I was, but I was still managing.”

“Were you?” Rue looks Lexi straight on with a gaze that can’t be ignored. Her eyes pierce through the darkness inside the car. 

Was I? Confronted with this new take, Lexi can’t defend her own version of the truth. Rue sees through Lexi’s bullshit just as well as Lexi can see through hers, a wonderful and sometimes frustrating quality for both of them. 

Before Lexi can answer her, the distant date before them reclaims Rue’s attention. “Is he crying?”

“I feel really bad for that woman he’s with.” 

“Maybe that’s his mom.”

“Gross, Rue. They kissed on the lips.”

“Fits the profile. Whoever’s helping the Strangler is sick in the head.”

“Right. The mole.” The idea of a “man on the inside” is still hard for Lexi to swallow, because as wonderful as she is, Bennett isn’t a reliable source of reason. One moment she can espouse wise insights, the next she’ll mouth off about some crazy idea. 

However, the detective does know how to spin a theory. She’s already starting to convince Lexi that Tyler might not actually be guilty. Take that composite, for instance. Part of a last ditch effort based on inadequate evidence, right? Why, then, does he look familiar? For a skeptic, Lexi’s starting to do a poor job of doubting.

“Aaaand they’re kissing again,” Rue sighs as she tosses her hands up. “At least we know it’s not his mom.”

“Oh my god, this is the weirdest date I’ve ever seen.”

“Weirder than road tripping to a prison?”

Lexi’s mouth falls open while Rue gives her a smoldering smirk. “No. Nope. We are not counting that as a date.”

“Wasn’t it? We got a meal. A show. Even sat out under the stars.”

“Absolutely not. When this case is over you’re taking me on a real first date and we’re gonna do it proper.”

Real dates. Normalcy. Such a thing doesn’t exist, shouldn’t Lexi know that? Normalcy is so subjective that for her and Rue, staking out a cop counts as a normal activity for the couple. She starts to laugh at the absurdity. 

Seeing Lexi laugh makes Rue laugh for her own reasons. She’s missed this lighter side of Lexi, the one she fell in love with. Before Lexi’s… _crisis_ , Rue was just getting to know—really know—her partner outside of the case, and everything new that she learned about Lexi affirmed that appreciation for her. Not even the breakdown could change how she feels. She loves Lexi, but now isn’t the time to tell her. The woman’s already processing too much for Rue to drop the L-bomb on her. 

So they let the conversation rest in silence for a long time, watching their mark while their minds wander. Rue’s mind stirs, restless for resolution. 

“Remember that time we were hanging out in the alley behind the precinct, and you tried to pretend you smoked? You said we both follow the ribbon. Why do we do that?”

Rue’s question seems to come out of nowhere, another turn to a deep conversation Lexi’s hesitant to wade into. “Just trying to help where we can,” she ventures. “Even though I know I can’t fix—.”

“You still try,” Rue finishes for her. “What are you trying to fix, though?”

The question draws the air out of Lexi, threatening to rip open her cover again with a question she still isn’t ready to confront. “The past, I guess. Making amends.”

“I’m tired of making up for that,” Rue resolves as her voice stiffens. “If I spend my whole life trying to fix every single mistake I’ve made, what does it all add up to?”

If only Lexi could look at her failures the same way. But her own life has pivoted on her moments of lapse, blame falling squarely on her shoulders. It’s not so easy to forgive your mistakes with blood on your hands. 

“I always thought if I made the right choices everything would be okay. Spent so much time worrying about letting people down, that I walked straight into it. For what? What was all the effort for? I mean, seriously.” 

The question of pain, and the purpose of it, rip open the clear fault lines of their outlooks. One a cynical optimist, the other a world-weary bleeding heart. 

“It’s funny,” Rue begins after careful thought. “We ask ourselves why bad things happen as if there’s an answer out there somewhere and our job is to find it. That is such bullshit. If you believe that, you have to rely on the assumption that purpose is set by something outside of your control. That you can’t choose the purpose yourself. Now that I’m older, I’m starting to think maybe you can change it yourself.”

“How do we assign our own meaning?” Lexi retorts with a skeptic’s frown. “What gives us the right?”

“Who’s telling us we can’t? God? I don’t hear him telling me no. He’s awfully quiet up there.”

“I guess not. But that doesn’t mean there’s a point to be found.”

“I’d hate to be powerless like that.”

“Sometimes you don’t have a choice.”

Choice. Failure. Fixing what can’t be undone. Lexi speaks of her trauma in shadowy allusions that gnaw at Rue’s curiosity. 

Rue considers mentioning the Polaroid in the Nancy Drew book. Though Lexi might think she was snooping, it was honestly an innocent find of pure chance on Rue’s part. And based on the sheet of dust covering the book, it would have stayed hidden a lot longer. 

Instead she opts for an indirect route to draw a fragment of truth from her partner. “If your building were on fire and you could only save one thing in it, what would it be?” 

Bennett’s always trying to kill time by playing games with questions that force Lexi’s hand. It’s like the world’s softest interrogation. 

“I don’t really have anything I’d want to save,” she lies. 

Too valuable to throw away, too painful to display or discuss. Rue knows that, if Lexi’s going to genuinely heal, she’s going to have to pull the book of the shelf eventually. The dilemma reminds her of her own memento. 

“I have this red hoodie somewhere in my bedroom. It was my dad’s. When he died I figured, y’know, he wasn’t gonna use it anymore. So I took it, wore it for about five straight years until there were holes in it. Then I packed it up so it wouldn’t get any more damaged than it already was. Man, I can’t believe I left it at home. Guess I had a lot of other stuff on my mind when I was packing.”

It’s a remark out of nowhere for Rue, but from the longing in her voice, the revelation comes from a deeply sentimental place. Lexi thinks, though she may be off-base, that Rue might be asking something of her without saying it directly. 

Maybe there is some agency here, one small way Lexi can bandaid over her partner’s lingering grief. How hard would it be to get in, find the hoodie, and get out? Lexi’s capable of her own grand gestures, right?

* * *

That’s how Lexi finds herself in forbidden territory the following night. She recently banned Rue from going to her own apartment, deeming it too high a risk for the detective. So Rue would probably be pissed if she knew Lexi was here now. If it’s dangerous for Rue to be here, and it probably isn’t safe for Lexi either. Doesn’t matter. Somewhere in here is a token of the past that needs to be reunited with Rue. If Lexi can’t do this for her, what kind of partner is she?

She guesses her way up to Rue’s apartment, having been here only a few times before. Opening the door to Rue’s apartment is no challenge. It’s a simple combination lock, easy enough to open with one bobby pin. The deadbolt takes a little longer and uses up two bobby pins, but eventually that clicks open as well. Slowly, carefully she twists the doorknob open just enough to unlatch it, then slips inside. 

The apartment is dark and musty from disuse, and Lexi tiptoes through it to the bedroom even though the place is empty, using the light of her phone rather than overhead lights. 

As she recalls, Rue told her the hoodie was in her bedroom. She checks the small, cluttered closet, coming up empty. Not in her drawers either. She pads around under the bed, blindly feeling for the thick plastic storage case Rue had described. 

The back of her hand bumps against a cold glass object that swishes at her touch. Her heart stops at the odd feel. Hesitantly, she grabs onto the object and pulls it out from under, forgetting to breathe. 

It’s a bottle of booze. Goddamn booze. 

She doesn’t realize that she’s squeezing the bottle as her mind starts to race, filled by questions with ominous answers.

There’s no dust on it because it’s been handled recently. 

Probably part of a stash Rue’s had the whole time. 

The whole time Lexi fell for her, trusted her, opened up to her. 

To a liar who broke a promise. 

How long she stands there, staring down at her discovery, Lexi isn’t sure. A vocal minority of her brain wants to hurl the bottle against the wall, for the satisfaction of watching it shatter and stain the white paint with the dark brown liquor. Obviously she doesn’t resort to that, but damn would it be nice to fuck up something of Bennett’s. Just like she’s fucked Lexi up. Rue reeled her in and stole her heart under the pretense of new beginnings. Self-improvement. Sobriety. That was the promise Bennett made. 

The promise she apparently broke. 

Something reflects right into Lexi’s eyes, pulling her from her panicked spiral and standing the hairs up on the back of her neck. 

“The hell?”

Some part of her mind, deep and instinctual and smarter than her, urges her to drop out of sight. 

Still holding her breath, she kneels down again, crawls to the window to survey the source. It looks like it’s coming from the building opposite Rue’s—a telescope or spotting scope poking out through curtains. 

“What the hell…”

At the sight of the scope her breath catches, but when she leans closer to the window the curtains snap shut. Her fight-or-flight is on the verge of kicking in but she keeps the panic at bay. 

She needs a game plan here. Get out of this building. Try and figure out who’s in that room. Call Bennett for help—they can deal with that hidden bottle later, but for now she needs Rue here to help figure out what the fuck’s going on.


	32. Catch Me If You Can

It speaks volumes about Lexi’s current predicament that crawling through a trash chute to exit a building is a logical solution. But this is her only option if she wants to get out unseen. Fears of another ambush, another impending disaster, flicker in the back of her mind. There isn’t any time for another plan when _they_ are closing in.

With a deep breath she climbs into the chute, bracing against the sides with her back and feet to shimmy down the narrow space. She tries to hold her breath and fails halfway down, gulping for air as the stench of refuse fills her nostrils.

“Please no one throw their trash away right now. Please please please…”

Fortunately it’s a relatively short crawl to the bottom, where she tumbles into a half-full dumpster completely disoriented and gasping for clean air. She wobbles to her feet, struggling to regain her balance as she stands on trash bags, and peeks over the rim to ensure the coast is clear before she hops onto the sturdy ground of the moonlit alley.

No one else in the alley, no passerby looking her way. Just her, trash and two rats. Her seclusion confirmed, she hunkers down and calls her partner.

“What up,” Rue answers with typical casualness completely at odds with the situation.

“We’re burned. Get out of there. Watch for any white truck or brown—.”

“Whoa, slow down,” the detective interjects. “Where are you? You okay?”

_Don’t act like you can help me._

Lexi bites back her anger in an effort to stay focused. “Listen: leave my apartment as fast as you can. Bring my camera, our go bags, my meds, anything else we absolutely need. And watch for brown cars, white trucks. Just shared my location with you.”

She hangs up before Rue can ask for an explanation. Her hands are starting to tremble and she’s seeing spots, which means she’s one bad thought away from snapping into a panic attack.

 _Easy breaths. In and out_.

She reminds herself where she is, who she is, who she’s with, the core truths to tether her to the real world. Her muscles unwind one at a time with each breath, and after a minute she opens her eyes again, her mind clearer and heart beating slower.

_Almost safe. Just get out of the alley. Gonna be fine._

With light, quick steps she tiptoes to the end of the sidewalk. As she turns the corner onto the street, she collides with a solid body twice her size. “Sorry,” they both mutter at the same time as she steps back.

That’s when she sees who’s in front of her, and finally latches onto the deja vu that’s escaped her all this time. That’s when it finally connects.

The man from the white truck. The man from the composite. One in same.

Nate’s eyes flash in recognition and his face pales. He was just trying to get a location on the agent, and this—direct contact—wasn’t in the plan he’d so carefully crafted and executed. One mistake.

He falters for a moment, then steps toward her. Lexi reaches up to her shoulder before she remembers she’s unarmed. And jarringly vulnerable. The revelation leaves blood pumping loudly in her ears. “Oh shit.” Her words tumble out on their own.

She stands rooted in place about a second too long before her brain gets the message to her body across. Without a second thought she turns on her heels and takes off sprinting down the street as fast as she can. Nate starts after her, pushing himself to try and keep pace. But the agent’s faster. He loses ground with every step, and only makes it another half block before a shock of white-hot pain courses through his leg.

“Damn it!”

He reaches down to clutch his knee, and when he looks up the agent’s figure has disappeared.

“Fuck!”

The agent recognized him. He recognized her. They both know it. And now she’s gone. Who knows where she’s going, or who she’s going to tell?

Limping back to his truck costs him valuable time. With his ailing leg he can barely push the gas pedal as he scours block by block with no agent in sight, eyes watering from pain.

Have your own back. Make no mistakes. Those were the pillars drilled into Nate year after year, lesson after painful lesson. All he had to do was follow that guidance. One mistake. That’s all it took. One variance from perfection and now it’s all about to slip out of his grasp.

His real mistake, upon reflection, was trusting the wrong people. Maddy let him down by distracting him, giving him bad intel, convincing him the agent wouldn’t be a problem. That’s where the blame truly lies. If he holds any responsibility, it’s that he chose the wrong person to protect his blind side.

His partner in crime answers on the first ring. “We’re moving in on them,” he states without emotion.

“On who? Bennett or the agent?”

“Both. Get to the agent’s apartment. Wait, hold on,” he backtracks after a second thought. “Stay where you are. Don’t blow your cover.”

“Nate.”

“What?”

“You said we wouldn’t go after them unless there’s no other option.”

“It’s us or them.” He slams his phone into the console and blocks out the sound of her ringtone as he continues to drive in circles.

His eyes stay trained the sidewalks as he scours for the agent, missing the midnight blue sedan that screams past him in the opposite lane, its driver in pursuit of the same target. Lexi’s proving equally difficult for Rue to find, even with an exact location pinging on her phone. The blue dot keeps jumping around the map like Lexi’s zigzagging across blocks.

“Damn it, Lex,” Rue growls as another call goes straight to voicemail. Beneath her frustration at the unanswered call lies a muffled fear that Rue’s already too late. If her partner had told her more than the absolute bare minimum and she knew what the hell’s going on, perhaps Rue could do more in this situation. But Rue’s helpless, and there’s nothing she hates more than not being able to do something.

Finally the blue dot settles in a backstreet fifteen blocks from its original location. When she arrives Rue pulls over on the main road and jogs down the street, watching as the distance closes between the two dots on her phone’s map. But there’s no Lexi in sight.

She’s about to try to call again when Rue notices a nook patched up with pieces of rotting cardboard, sandwiched between a buildings. A Howard-sized hiding spot. She approaches the makeshift shelter gingerly, and just as she removes a piece of cardboard a figure bursts out, shoving a canister of pepper spray into her face.

“Lexi, wait!” The agent lowers her weapon just before Rue’s eyes get blasted with pepper spray.

“Were you followed?” Lexi asks as she looks up and down the street, then back to Rue.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty su—.”

Lexi doesn’t let her finish. “We need to get out of here.”

Rue takes in her partner—reeking of garbage and sweat, her eyes wild and clothes rumpled. Either Lexi’s lost her mind again, or shit just went down. “Let’s get back to the car.” She tries to grab Lexi’s arm and Lexi jerks it away, so Rue silently leads her back to the main road.

“Where’s my camera?” Lexi blurts out as soon as the doors are closed behind them. She snatches it from Rue’s hand and clicks through the pictures until she freezes and her breath hitches. “You were right.”

“I was right?”

“You were right,” Lexi concedes without an ounce of satisfaction in her voice. “It’s the white truck guy, Rue.”

“Who’s the white truck guy?”

“He lives on your block. I’d see him come and go. That’s why I recognized the composite, but I never put two and two together.”

“You saw him come and go? Why were you…”

Lexi tips her head up and tucks her lips, holding in her explanation.

“Were you spying? For me?” Rue blinks as she thinks through this scenario. “That’s… sweet. Like, kind of weird but I guess it—.”

“Focus,” Lexi snaps, then hands over her camera and taps on the viewing screen. Rue cranes her neck down, narrowing her eyes at the small screen to analyze the face in front of her.

“Look familiar?”

“Holy shit,” Rue mumbles, unwittingly emulating Lexi’s reaction. It’s not a great picture, but even from this image she knows it’s the man from the composite made flesh. The resemblance is uncanny.

“You see it too, right?”

Rue stares down in stunned, slack jawed silence. Her brain so paralyzed she can only repeat herself. “Holy shit.”

“Does he look like anyone from your precinct?”

“Uh, not really. At least not from my department. He might work in the building but... I don’t think so. I think I would’ve recognized him if he did.”

Rue sees the signs of panic in Lexi, her dilated pupils and trembling chin as her hands jam into her armpits. Before anything else, she has to take care of her partner. “We’ve got it under control.”

“No we do not! Nothing is under control.”

“Calm down, do those breathing exercises the therapist taught you.”

“I am calm!” Lexi shouts at her before recognizing the irony of her reaction and tempering herself. “We need a plan. What are we going to do?”

The plan’s obvious to Rue, having led to this point by some divine providence. “I’m going to stop him.”

“No you are not. He’s looking for you. I’m handling this and you’re getting out of town.”

“Hate to break it to you, but now he’s probably looking for you too.”

“We’re not debating this, Rue. I’m the one who needs to stay.” Though she doesn’t dig her heels in often, when she does, Lexi is just as stubborn as Rue.

“You shouldn’t be worrying about any of this in the first place, okay? You’re not well enough to do this. I’m the one who’s staying,” Rue decides, trying to appeal to Lexi’s sense of reason.

“Don’t stay just because you’re worried getting reinstated. It’s not worth your life.”

“I don’t give two shits about getting reinstated. You are not in a good place to take this on. I don’t want to see you break down again.”

“And I don’t want you to die!” Lexi pleads, her voice breaking.

Rue’s voice rises to meet hers so that they both shout. “I’m not fucking leaving you here in the city!”

“Well I’m not leaving you either!”

“Then what are we gonna do?”

Howard sits back, closes her eyes, and starts to breathe slowly. It’s a mindfulness exercise Rue practiced with her after a therapy session, intended to slow the heart and mind down so she can manage herself again.

“We need to find somewhere safe to stay,” Lexi eventually concludes. “Off the grid.”

“I think I know somewhere we can go.” Rue hits a number on speed dial and glances around.

“Just when I thought I was out,” Lexi mumbles bitterly as Rue’s phone rings.

“Fez? I need some help. _We_ need help.”


	33. Wickedness or Weakness

Maddy would be the ideal candidate for the Ritual. Wouldn’t even need much preparation. If only Nate were strong enough to do for her what he’s done for everyone else.

“You told me the agent wouldn’t be a problem,” Nate reminds his detective with slow and deliberate enunciation.

Maddy glowers up at him from the end of the bed, where she’s tending to his ailing knee. “How do you even know she recognized you? The agent’s always jumpy.”

“No, she knew who I was. Why else would she run away?”

“Honestly? She’s probably more afraid of you than you are of her. Homegirl has problems.”

If the agent were the only problem they had to deal with, Nate wouldn’t feel so vexed. Howard turned out to be a legitimate problem, but she’s still only one person. A _team_ against them—the detective, the agent, and whoever else they’re working with—poses a much more serious threat to Nate.

“As long as that damn detective’s breathing down her neck, they’re not gonna sit around and wait for us to find them.”

Maddy turns away from him, her eyes drop then roll up to the ceiling. He knows that look. “Go ahead,” he prompts her, forcing out of her whatever it is she’s trying not to say.

“You let this get out of hand.”

“Don’t turn this around on me,” he snaps as he pushes her hand off his leg. “You told me those girls weren’t partners anymore. Then you said the agent wasn’t a threat. That she was useless in the field. You misread. Every fucking time. Now we’re… _exposed_ , all because you made a bad call. I can’t trust you. Do you understand that?”

Though she could easily remind him of all she’s done, of her role in destroying evidence for him, she doesn’t say anything. Just crosses her arms and looks away.

Nate’s partially wrong. He knows that. Without Maddy, he’d be in jail. The core dilemma remains to be solved: he can’t trust her abilities, but he also wouldn’t have gotten this far without her.

Maddy tosses her hands up, frustrated by the circular argument. “The fact that they’re still looking means they don’t have anything real. If they had a smoking gun, they would’ve already gone to their bosses.”

“ _I_ am the smoking gun,” Nate snaps, jabbing his finger at himself. “If I’m arrested the witnesses will come forward. They’ll tell the cops about the blackmail. Then they’ll find out about the tampering and they’ll trace it to you and it’s all over.”

From Maddy’s expression, it’s apparent she’s considered this series of events before. She allows a small nod, failing to meet his eyes. “So what’re we gonna do?”

“We have to find them before we can figure out what to do with them.”

“The captain doesn’t even know where she is,” she says wearily.

“Have him put a team on finding her. Put an APB on her,” Nate lists off, counting on his fingers. “Didn’t she take evidence from the precinct? Use that as justification to track her.”

“He won’t do any of that. He has a soft spot for her. Won’t wanna get her in trouble.”

 _Soft spots._ Nate scoffs. Emotion is the Achilles heel of human attachment. And by that standard, Maddy is an open sore in Nate’s system that invites infection, threatening its collapse.

He tries to sit himself up, an effort that rewards him with a renewed stab of pain through his leg.

“I really think you should call the doctor about this.”

“I’ll call a doctor when I know I’m not going to prison. Until then I can’t focus.”

“Let me help.”

Nate studies her carefully while she places her hand on his thigh and gently hoists his leg to situate an ice pack underneath.

Maddy is a good person. Far better than him. She understands a whole world that he can only mimic, the full spectrum of human emotion and all its confusing rules and conflicting impulses. Most importantly, she understands him. She knows who he really is. She’s been there through everything—the good, the bad. The very bad. She was even there when Nate’s future ended, standing on the sidelines.

_Senior year. State playoff quarterfinals. Third quarter, 2:22 to go. Coach called a short throw on a simple fade route the team had practiced a hundred times._

_But the problem with football is that everything can change on one play._

_The linebacker jumped the snap, beat his blocker off the edge, and landed a clean hit to Nate’s blind side just as he got the throw off. Nate’s knee was underneath the defender’s body at precisely the wrong angle when they slammed into the ground, generating a snap and pop from his leg that could be heard over the noise of the crowd._

_As he writhed on the ground, engulfed in a more severe pain than he’d ever experienced before, he could smell the turf wedged in his face mask. That’s all he remembered as he lie prone on the field, surrounded by teammates and medical staff and Cal watching from the stands, unable to control the damage._

_A compound fracture to the tibia and fibula. Tears of the ACL, MCL, and patellar tendon. His right leg was done for. No more scholarship to Fresno State. No more football career at all. 18 years he had given everything to this sport. And in the one moment he couldn’t control, it was robbed from him._

_The whole game turns on one play._

_He’ll never forget the way Cal looked at him when Nate woke up from surgery. Couldn’t even look his son in the eye, so ashamed was he at Nate’s moral failure._

Maddy’s giving him a similar look now, like she’s watching the future morph into an unrecognizable blur, warped and reshaped by Nate’s words.

“You’re going to kill them, aren’t you?” she asks him after a pregnant pause.

“I won’t relish it,” he promises her. And he means it, too.

“When’s it going to stop?”

“What do you mean?” He doesn’t know why he asks this. He knows exactly that she means.

“You know what I mean,” she echoes. “I want better for you.”

Though Maddy understands him, even her vision is limited. She can’t see the full beauty of the Ritual, so she can’t understand its purpose or importance. Her empathy limits the way she sees the world and its opportunities.

“ _This_ is what’s better. What we’re doing... There’s nothing better I could do than this. It’s my purpose. I know that now.”

Maddy doesn’t argue with him. She knows better than that, because even when she’s right, if they argue, Nate will still win.

“If the department won’t do its job, how can we find them?” he asks to get them back on topic. He rubs his hand over his mouth as he thinks. “Doesn’t your precinct have the tools to track her?”

“It’s not that easy. There’s protocols, rules, red tape…” 

“If we can track them we have to do it. It’s the only way. We can go back later and clean up the trail, but we have to find them first.”

She nods, but she still won’t look at him. “Should take a couple days to get a lock on them.”

“I just hope that’s enough time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone’s having a nice holiday. Next chapter soon


	34. Monsters Under the Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t sure if it’d be appropriate to update right now given what has happened/is happening in DC and across the country. I decided to post because maybe this chapter can give you some temporary respite from all the bad news. 
> 
> I can’t say I’m surprised by the domestic terrorism that’s occurring. This coup is a symptom of our country’s sickness. It’s a reckoning that is decades or centuries in the making and won’t soon be resolved. I’m heartbroken, scared and angry by how it’s playing out. Not really sure what else to say, because there aren’t words I can string together that do justice for how disturbing this is to witness this in real time. I just hope wherever you are, you’re safe and you are taking care of yourself. 
> 
> Sorry to get political, but I had to say something about this somewhere. I’ll climb off my soapbox now...

_Bennett,_

_I’m sorry I have to tell you this way, but you gave me no other option. I’ve decided to end the review for your reinstatement at this time and suspend your work on this case. There are still some behavioral concerns on your behalf that need to be addressed. Please call me._

_Best,_

_Captain Ali_

As Rue reads over the email once more, she reminds herself this is not the end of the world. She was never going to find the real bad guy through an official investigation—not with Clarkson’s arrest, the FBI’s involvement, and a mole in the department. The only way this gets solved is through extrajudicial means and a small team she can trust. That’s all she needs. 

But now it’s been a day and a half in hiding, and Rue’s getting stir crazy. If it were Lexi’s choice, they’d wait this out. But any agency that they have left to stop the Strangler is dwindling within these walls, and if they don’t act soon, they’ll be at the mercy of someone unlikely to show it. 

Stirred by these thoughts, Rue pulls herself up and saunters into the living room, where her crack team awaits. “I don’t want to sit around and wait,” she announces. “We need to get them before they get us.”

“Ay, Dirty Harry, chill.”

Fezco barely looks up from the blunt he’s rolling. 

“If we let them find us we’re going to be killed anyway.”

Fez shakes his head but doesn’t argue, leaving in its place disappointed silence. So Rue turns to her partner for some backup. “What do you think?” 

From her seat next to Fez on the couch, Lexi doesn’t reply. Her eyes stay trained on the TV like she’s watching a show only she can see. 

“Hey,” Rue prompts again with a nudge, “what do you wanna do?

“‘What are we gonna do’?” Lexi blinks as she considers the question. “I always wanted to go to Australia,” she begins to ramble, her voice far off and dreamlike. “See that zoo Steve Irwin worked at. Hold a koala. They’re so cute. Fluffy. Tiny little hands.”

“Great, add it to the bucket list. Now what are we gonna do about the case?”

“The case?” Lexi blinks, then shrugs and fixes her eyes back at the black screen, mentally checking herself out again. 

“That’s really helpful Lex. Thank you for being helpful.”

“You have a picture of ole boy’s car. Run the plates,” Fez suggests as he takes a drag. 

“That, uh... wouldn’t work. And I can’t trust anyone at the precinct anyway.”

So the new team isn’t as helpful as she was hoping. Which is fine. She hasn’t been thinking, trying to get them involved. Rue knows what she needs to do now, and knows that she needs to do it alone. 

“I’m gonna go to his apartment.”

“No you’re not,” Lexi and Fez blurt out at the same time. They look at each other, then at Rue with the same disapproving expression. 

“I am,” the detective affirms aloud. “That’s the only way we’ll get any intel.”

“Nah, y’all gotta lay low.”

Ignoring Fez’s advice, Rue turns to her partner for backup. “You think I can do it?” she asks as she nudges Lexi’s shoulder again to prompt an answer. 

The nudge agitates Lexi—if only because she knows she’s not supposed to enjoy the touch of someone she’s angry with, who’s been lying to her under the guise of sobriety and possibly jeopardizing her safety. And even with all this in mind, she has no choice about what to do next. Frustrated, she stands and shuffled across the room. “I have to go if you’re going.”

“Not necessarily.”

“You’re not going by yourself. You wouldn’t even know where to look. I’m the one who saw the sus apartment.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Rue tries to convince her. “Please don’t come with me. Let me handle it. You’re not in a healthy state of mind to do this.”

“And you are?”

“Yes?” 

Lexi scoffs but says nothing. 

“Okay, what did I do wrong? You’ve been weird with me ever since you found the Strangler.”

“We can talk about it later.”

“So I did do something wrong.”

“Why are you worried about it?” Lexi snaps as she tosses her hands up. “We’ve got a serial killer on our tail and you’re focused on me and you?”

“If I offended you I want to make it right.”

“You didn’t offend me.” (That much is the truth, in Lexi’s mind. She’s hurt, even angry, but she’s not offended).

“Let me do this myself,” Rue pleads again. 

“I know what I’m doing in a situation like this. I was trained for it.”

“I know you _can_ do it, I just don’t think you _should_.”

“Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do!” Lexi argues back. “You think I can’t take care of myself? I’ve been doing that since day one. Way before you met me. I know how to fend for myself out there. I know how to do my job.”

“Fine, whatever, come with me then!”

“Fine, I will!”

Rue storms out of the room as Lexi slumps back on the couch. Bennett’s still treating her like she has a “fragile, handle with care” sticker slapped on her forehead, when the last thing Lexi wants is feigned concern from the person who’s been drinking behind her back and lying to her. 

She looks over at Fezco, whom they'd forgotten was sitting right here for the whole conversation that just transpired. 

“She’s gonna be the death of me,” Lexi as admits she rubs her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. 

Fez stares straight ahead in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact. 

“She’s an incredible… work partner,” Lexi continues, feeling compelled to explain herself. “But sometimes I kind of want to smack her.” 

“I feel that.” Fez nods slowly, the sentiment clearly registering with him. 

As they sit in silence, one critical question burns in Lexi. She considers avoiding it entirely but rejects the idea, sick of running around the same sticky set of topics. The secrets, the hiding is the whole reason Lexi was burned by Rue in the first place. 

“When did Rue start drinking?” she coaxes herself into asking. 

Fez squints and rubs his hand over his scalp. “Damn, musta been... when she was a freshman I guess.”

“Freshman in college?”

“Nah, high school. Never went to college.”

“That’s really young,” Lexi states, taken aback (she never has the right words for these kinds of conversations). 

“Her dad’d just died,” Fez explains. “Been sick with cancer for a long time, man.”

“Oh.”

“So a week after he died, I get a text from her askin’ me to get her a six pack. And I think, y’know, why not? Least I could do for her. Never would’ve gotten it for her if I knew what it’d turn into.”

She can feel the weight of Fez’s words as he speaks, filled with his own share of regret, and remains in respectful silence. 

“When he died, kinda felt like I watched a little of Rue die with him. Y’know? She had this look in her eyes for years, man, and it killed me. Just... lost. Only way I can describe it. Lost in the world.”

Fez’s voice shakes just a tad. “Look… Rue and I, we go all the way back. I seen all her ups and downs. You know she ain’t perfect. Just like everybody else.” Never one to speak out of turn, he takes a drag of his blunt just as his words start flowing smoothly. “You gotta take her good with her bad,” he eventually concludes. “It ain’t mutually exclusive.”

He looks at Lexi, then takes one last drag and stands up. “Rue ain’t like other people. I see it. I know you see it. Guess the question is if the good’s worth the bad to you.” 

Then he steps outside, leaving her to contemplate this final question. 

She knows Fezco’s at least partially correct in his sage words. No such thing as good without some bad. But even with his wisdom, he doesn’t know the other side of the story. Lexi’s story matters just as much—the drinking, and the apparent lying about it, hits too close to home given her personal history. She could talk about picking her own mother off the floor and dragging her to bed when the woman was passed out drunk. She could describe her parents’ fights, threatening to kill each other, while her and Cassie huddled in bed trying to ride it turmoil together. Both memories she’d tried very hard to leave behind. Both symptoms of a corrosive disease. 

She never expected perfection from Rue, but betrayal isn’t a simple matter of “ups” and “downs.” It forces her to question everything they’ve built in their partnership, the trust they’d earned and intimacy they cultivated. Rue broke that trust in the worst way possible by doing this. And it hurts like hell. And she has no idea what to do about it. 

* * *

“Stop here,” Rue orders half a block from their mark—the suspicious apartment Lexi had tapped as a potential hideout. 

Fez rolls the car to a halt at the corner. “You get in any shit, you call me, okay?”

“Will do,” Rue affirms. Just as she’s about to climb out of the car a brilliant idea strikes her. “Gimme a gun,” she asks/tells Fez. 

“No fuckin’ way I’m givin’ you a gun.”

“Why not?”

“I promised myself I’d never give you a deadly weapon.”

Rue narrows her eyes and grunts. “Your really gonna let us go with nothing to defend ourselves?”

After a moment to consider this prospect, Fez turns to the agent in the backseat and looks her up and down. “You’re a fed, right?”

“Uh… Technically.”

“Know how to shoot?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.” He asks no more questions as he passes the weapon in the glove box to her. 

“Are you serious?” Rue looks between her friend and partner in disbelief. “Trust me, between the two of us she should not be the one with the gun.”

Rue can’t miss Lexi’s withering glare into the back of her head while Fez shakes his. “Rue, I love you, but I know you, and you crazy. Like I said, no way I’m givin’ you a deadly weapon.”

That word again—crazy. It grates at Rue’s mind every time it’s directed at her, chips away at her like there’s no part of herself than can be extricated from her _problems_. 

“I’ll be watching the block,” Fez assures them as the final word. “Keep ya eyes open. Remember: any shit goes down, you call me.”

As they climb out of the car, Lexi tucks the gun in her waistband. “I still don’t think you should have a gun,” Rue states, hoping vocal disapproval can appeal to the agent’s wiser self. 

“I don’t think you should either. So here we are.” The agent heads to the entrance of the building, leaving Rue stumped on the sidewalk. 

Rue can’t figure out Lexi, who’s managed to both pull herself back together and crumble in the midst of the crisis. She’s just as she was when Rue first met her, hiding turmoil behind a well-constructed façade to operate with the cool stratagem of a trained professional. 

Anyone in this situation would struggle to cope, so Rue understands why she’s lost some progress. But why she would suddenly shut down, after weeks of accepting help, Rue doesn’t know. And she’s afraid to find out because it’s clearly her fault. She knows Lexi wouldn’t take that anger out on her unless she was the source of it.

Fortunately the partners aren’t completely out of sync. They don’t need to talk out a plan as they stand outside of the complex with unlit cigarettes, pretending to smoke until someone walks out. Rue catches the door before it closes and holds it open for Lexi, then glances behind her as they slip inside. They jog up to the third floor and count the doors down from the stairwell until they arrive at the apartment in question (at least, they think it’s the right one). 

There’s no sound coming from inside the apartment. The crack under the door is just wide enough to slide Rue’s phone underneath, allowing them to get a visual of the interior. It’s dark, but there doesn’t appear to be any furniture. 

After making sure no one’s in the hallway, Lexi pulls the sidearm and clicks the safety off. “Stand behind me,” the agent whispers. 

“I should go in first. I’m bigger.”

“That doesn’t make any sense if I have the gun.”

“Then give me the gun.”

“I’m not giving you the gun! Just get behind me.”

Rue pauses for a second, then lunges forward and tries to grab the weapon. Lexi pulls back, holding the gun away as far as her arm can stretch. “Are you nuts? You could’ve gotten one of us shot!” she hisses under her breath. 

Rue steps back and rolls her eyes as Lexi fiddles with the deadbolt, but as soon as the lock clicks open, they lock eyes. 

This is a terrible, awful plan. Both of them know that. They have no idea who’s watching, or what’s on the other side of that door. They could be walking into a crime scene, or an ambush, or a family home, or any number of scenarios ranging from normal to fucked. And if worst comes to worst, no one (except Fez, if they’re lucky) will know where to find them.

The catalog of risks isn’t not enough to dissuade either of them from going in, though. Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. 

With her partner backing her up, Lexi closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and, as she’s done a million times before, blocks out the thoughts and focuses. Muscle memory takes over from here.

As soon as they cross the threshold, their priority is to clear the entire unit as fast as possible. Aiming her phone flashlight and gun out in front, Lexi sweeps each room with Rue following, impotently holding a can of pepper spray and a pocket knife in front of her. But there’s nothing to clear—the unit’s either unoccupied or abandoned, devoid not just of people but of any sign of life.

Lexi moves back into the unfurnished living area and looks around, suddenly feeling very small in this empty expense of a room. 

“There’s your scope,” Rue notes as she pulls the curtains back. “How’d you see that all the way from my apartment?”

“Hypervigilance pays off sometimes.”

The spotting scope’s a fairly expensive model, rigged on a tripod. At the sight of the spyglass a sense of foreboding pricks both of them, confirming the threat and affirming their fears. Like they’re being watched even now. There are no cameras in here, or any place to hide them, but they know they’ve found a place they weren’t supposed to see. 

“Great, stalker confirmed. Can we go now?” Lexi pleads. 

Rue holds a finger up to Lexi and squints as she glanced around. “You hear that? It’s like... whistling? Fluttering?” 

They stand frozen and strain their ears for a few seconds. Then Rue gets on her hands and knees and peers into the air vent at the bottom of the wall. “There’s something in here,” she reports as she starts to unscrew the vent with her pocket knife. 

Lexi’s getting more nervous by the second. Her heart is pounding, her mind tuned to the noises outside the apartment rather than from the air vent. She swears she can hear footsteps coming down the hall. 

“We need to get out of here.”

“Hold on.” Rue takes off the grate, sticks her whole arm inside the shaft and starts to feel around inside. 

“I think someone’s coming!”

“I don’t hear anyone.”

Rue latches onto a flat object at the very end of her fingertips and pulls out a thin notebook, its pages bent and ruffled from the concentrated stream of air in the shaft. Lexi’s breath hitches at the sight as she receives another dose of fear from this new source of consternation. 

“What does it say?”

Rue takes a moment to reply while she tries to decipher the chicken-scratch handwriting. “It’s... a list of times. I can’t understand the rest.”

“Times?”

“Maybe a log of when I come home and go out.”

“We need to get the hell out of here,” Lexi says, no longer asking for Rue’s permission. “Bring the book. Let’s go.”

Just as Lexi issues the order, the definite sound of footsteps in the hallway freeze the partners in place. The steps are steady, the pace slow but clearly audible through the door. 

Telegraphing terror, Rue’s eyes shift to Lexi, who slowly and calmly draws the gun to ready position. 

The footfall stops, shadows of legs blotting out the light in the crack underneath the door. Rue doesn’t think twice about ducking behind the agent’s small frame at the sound of rattling keys, preferring to stand behind a gun than between two of them. For a few long seconds, neither dare to draw a breath for fear of making a single noise. 

The keys rattle, then click into a lock—in the door across the hall. From this realization both the agent and detective sigh at the same time, relieved enough to take the focus off the danger and notice their hearts are thudding in their chests. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Rue agrees too late for Lexi’s liking. 

“Any luck?” Fez greets as Rue and Lexi join him in the car. 

Rue unconsciously grips the notebook tighter. “I guess you could could say that.”

Lexi wouldn’t say that. Now they know the real killer’s still out there, and that he’s coming. He knows at least here they live and how they travel. He likely knows a lot more about them than that. And if Rue’s correct (which she most likely is), he has help on the inside. 

Meanwhile, she and the detective are alienated from their agency and department, with almost no one to trust. And now they’re alienated from each other too, the trust broken in at least one end. 

There’s that wrong feeling again. Dread. Like a dagger’s hanging over her head, ready to drop. 

The sun’s just finished setting as they head “home,” which steals light from Rue while she tries to read more of the notes from the notebook. Her heart sinks a little deeper every time she sees “Bennett” written, though she can’t quite make out the rest of the text. 

“Rue?” Lexi calls from the back. 

“You won’t believe what’s in this book, Lex.”

“Rue, check our six. We’ve got company.”

Rue whirls around and follows Lexi’s eyeline to the vehicle a few cars back. “White truck, shit! You gotta get us away from them,” she tells Fez. 

“Who is that?” Fez asks as she steps on the gas. 

“The less you know, the better.”

Fez guns the engine and swerves between cars. They narrowly avoid the incoming traffic as they coast through a red light, losing one follower and gaining a new follower. With the wail of a siren, blue lights fill the interior of the car. “Fuckin’ hell, man,” Fez growls as he slaps the window. 

“At least White Truck’s gone.”

“Just pull over,” Lexi pleads. “Rue can try and talk our way out of it.”

“Uh, nah. That ain’t gonna work with these guns in the car,” Fez reminds her. Lexi takes his gun off her person and tucks it into a seat pocket. No sense in getting caught with an unregistered weapon if it’s not hers, right?

As the cop nears, Fez finds his resolve and flexes his hands on the steering wheel. “Lemme sort this out.”

The squad car stays on them and taps the rear bumper in an attempt to pit, but Fez stays in control of the swerving vehicle to regain traction and speed down the busy avenue. 

“Hold on!”

Fez’s eyes shoot to the rear view mirror again as he runs another red and cuts a sharp left turn, leaving a trail of honking cars and angry drivers in his wake that blocks the path for the cop. They don’t slow down until they’ve set a few miles of distance and plenty of detours to remove themselves far from the scene. 

“I think we lost them.” Fez pulls to a halt in an empty alley, allowing the trio to catch their breath. “Shit, that was too real.” 

Rue gulps for breath and turns around to the backseat. “You okay?” 

Lexi sits dumbfounded for a few seconds. Then, without answering, she’ll climbs out of the car, strolls to a trash can, leans in and upchucks. 

“She’ll be fine,” Rue shrugs to Fez. “Just... give her a minute.”

When Lexi slides back into the backseat, pale and silent, she doesn’t look at either of them. She wipes her mouth, sitting up straight to project as much dignity as she can beneath the billowing fear and seething anger. “Let’s go home. Please.” 

Not a word is uttered on the drive back to the house, a journey through side streets and service roads to avoid the scouring eyes of law enforcement. In their respective states of shock none of them notice the white truck, albeit at a much farther distance than before, still railing them. 

“Maddy,” Nate greets as he sets his phone on speaker, “scratch that number tracking. I’m on them as we speak.”

“You found them?”

“Yeah. And I’m about to find their hideout too. We gotta move. Tonight.”

* * *

It feels like a lifetime since Rue first met Lexi. In some respects, it _was_ a lifetime ago. But for this short period of time she stil knows the agent well, and she can tell when Lexi has something on her mind. Lexi’s not good at hiding it. 

Rue closes the guest bedroom door behind them and leans against it. “You hanging in there?”

Lexi sits down on the bed but doesn’t meet her partner’s gaze. What does Rue expect her to do? Is Lexi supposed to sink to her knees in fear and terror? It’s not like this is the first time someone is trying to kill her. 

Her lips twist as her mind tries to work through the ever-thickening plot she finds herself embroiled in. “What was that, back there?”

“What was what? Finding this amazing clue in the apartment? Or that car chase? I mean, holy shit, right? What the fuck is going on?”

Lexi finally faces Rue—Rue, who she loves but also kind of hates right now, and laughs dryly. “This is a game to you, isn’t it?”

“Is that why you’re mad? Because you think I’m not taking this seriously?” Rue cocks her head and sticks her hands in her pockets. 

“No, that’s not why I’m mad.”

Rue can’t stand the purgatory of knowing she somehow messed up, yet being unable to fix it. 

“You know, when Jules was mad at me, she told me what I did wrong.”

With these words, Lexi begins to seethe. At long last, she removes her safeguard of restraint and lets the pent-up anger flow, an emotion she rarely lets flow uninhibited. “I’m talking about the fucking liquor bottle under your bed,” she snaps, too soon to consider the delicacy of this topic or how she’s raising it. 

Rue’s jaw slacks as she tries to place what Lexi’s even talking about, a reaction that, to Lexi, only confirms guilt. But for the moment, Rue’s genuinely clueless. Until she remembers. The reminder, of her inability to throw that bottle away and discard a vestige of her past, forms a pit in her stomach. 

“I swear, I hadn’t touched that bottle in...” 

In months, in fact. Rue’s kept track of the exact number of months, weeks, and days since the last drink. Even has a timer on her phone for it. 

“... In months. I don’t know how to prove that.”

“And I don’t know how to keep giving you the benefit of the doubt when the evidence says otherwise.”

Rue’s breath hitches and her cheeks begin to burn with indignation. “So what happened to trust, then?” she retorts sharply. 

“Yeah, what happened to trust? You made a promise,” Lexi reminds her with her own dose of indignation. She can feel this discussion escalating but is powerless to stop it. “You know— _you know_ —how important the truth about sobriety is to me. It’s one thing to slip up, but to lie about it?”

“When exactly do you think I lied about it?”

“When _didn’t_ you lie about it?” Lexi retorts. Because if Rue really has been drinking this whole time, that renders their entire experience together an act of deception by a drunk who claimed she wasn’t. 

Her mouth dry, Lexi tries to form words to break the heavy silence. “The night after we talked to the witness... when we went back to my place and talked about… our sisters, and you left after I fell asleep? Did you really go back to work? Or did you go home and drink? Did you start back up? Are you still drinking?”

“I already told you I’m not. Just because you found a… a relic, now all of the sudden you’re willing to question everything?”

“Because you promised! You promised, Rue. Then I find a stash right under your bed. That bottle told me what you never did.”

“Because all problems come from a bottle, right?” Rue scoffs. Her base instincts call into question whether Lexi really ever believed in her, whether this ‘thing’ between them was real or some fantastic distraction her mind had created. Because this person in front of her now, hurling accusations and projecting her baggage so venomously, isn’t the person Rue thought she knew. 

“You don’t see addiction as a disease,” Rue continues, “you see it as a flaw. Guess what Lexi? You think you’ve suffered because of addiction? You’re not the only one. I almost lost everything because of my problems. And I’m going to have to keep fighting it the rest of my life. I hate that part of myself as much as you do.”

The impotence of this argument is fast becoming clear to both of them, but there’s no way either of them can stop now that the brakes are cut. The room’s growing humid with such searing barbs. 

“I don’t hate you,” Lexi tries to convince her. “I’m scared for you because the hiding, the lying, leaving yourself open to relapse... I know where it’ll take you. I saw it take my parents too. And if you keep that bottle with you, if you leave the option open, you’ll walk right back into it.”

“You assume that I slipped up one time and you shut down. You say it’s okay not to be perfect as long as I’m trying to be better, but how am I supposed to believe you? One mistake, that I didn’t even do, and you don’t even give me the opportunity to prove I’m telling the truth that I never lied in the first place.”

“How can I trust that? The last few weeks…” Lexi tosses her hands up as her mind starts to spin counting over the possible lies and deceptions. “Hell, since you kissed me. Was it real?”

The question is a slap in the face for Rue and it robs her of breath. “You’re really asking me that? After everything we’ve been through? How much damn evidence would it take to change your mind?” She steps forward as Lexi pivots away. “I tried to do everything I could for you. I had no idea what I was doing but I still tried. Then you turn around and ask me this was real? What else can I show you? What’s going to be good enough?”

“You know what I’m going through? You don’t, Rue. You really don’t.” 

“No, you’re right! I don’t. You never told me.” Rue’s voice cracks from sheer frustration. “And hey, that’s cool. I’m not entitled to know. But don’t blame me for not knowing what you’re going through, when you never let me in to begin with. Trust is a fucking two way street. You don’t trust that I’m making the effort to be better.”

“We’re talking about trust? Don’t act like it’s my fault that I caught you in a lie,” Lexi growls, standing to face Rue with shoulders tensed. 

“So it’s all on me, right?” Rue snaps as she jabs her finger in her chest. “You know what? Addiction’s my disease but you’re sick too. You’re a hypocrite. You tell me to look for the best and then tell me there’s no purpose. You tell me to just keep going while you wallow in your own misery. You love being the victim. You act like no one’s lost more than you have, but you don’t have a monopoly on tragedy. You lost your sister? I lost my dad. Our grief’s the same.”

Lexi stands silent for a moment. From the look on her face, Rue immediately knows she’s gone too far. And it’s too late to fetch the words from the air now that they’ve been spoken. 

Lexi’s voice soft but steely when she speaks again, wavering despite her best effort to keep her composure. “Our grief isn’t the same. You’re entitled to feel your grief. Me? I don’t deserve to feel it. Because it was my fault. I watched my sister die knowing I was the reason. That’s why I don’t talk about. I don’t think about it. If I really do, I won’t be able to live with myself.”

They stare at each other from across the room, every word hanging in the humid air and pushing them apart. 

“That’s the difference between us, Rue. You have a choice of whether you want to keep screwing up. The mistakes I’ve made, I can’t undo them. It’s too late for me. I don’t want that for you.”

“I don’t know what happened, but—.”

“But what? That I didn’t kill her just because I didn’t grab a gun and shoot her myself?”

Rue’s jaw almost drops before she clinches it. She can’t refute what Lexi’s saying because she doesn’t know the truth. 

The air in the room is now quickly thinning out so that there’s not enough left for the both of them. They stand apart again, waiting for the other to end the dead air. 

Rue eventually breaks the silence. “You really think it’s too late for you? After everything you told me about being better and not giving up, you’re gonna look me in the eyes and tell me it doesn’t apply to you? I always thought you kept trying to be better. But when it really matters, when your back’s against the wall, you give up and hide.”

Lexi nods slowly. “You really do know me.” She looks down in shame, tears burning behind her eyes, and picks up her go-bag. 

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t be here right now.”

“We can fix this.”

“Not right now we can’t.”

“It’s not safe out there.”

“It’s safer than it is here with a crazy person like you.”

With these words, the anger drains from Rue’s face, leaving her pale and her expression unreadable. The fight, the walk-out… It’s the worst moment of her life playing out all over again. 

Lexi regrets the insult as soon as it’s spoken, but her impulse to escape overwhelms her instinct to apologize and comfort. She’s halfway out the door when Rue stops her. The sound of the voice barely registers in Lexi’s ringing ears. 

“Wait.”

Lexi almost defies the request, but against her better judgement she stops. Though silent, Rue’s eyes plead to Lexi, begging her not to repeat history. 

But in truth, Rue has no idea what to say. Nothing she can say would be enough to bridge the crevice turn open between them. No perfect sequence of words would be enough. 

After a moment of pause, Rue slowly, hesitantly, grabs her own go-bag and pulls out a small yellow book, extending it to Lexi. “If it’s not too late for me, it’s not too late for you.”

Lexi stares down at the Nancy Drew book in Rue’s hand. She’s too taken aback by the potent memories to ask where Rue found this or why she brought it. 

Then they look each other in the eye for the first time tonight. 

If only there was some antidote to cure the toxins they’ve unleashed on each other. Yet they both know there’s no easy or immediate solution. No going back. Too much has been said, too much of their ugliness revealed, to stay and try to work through the damage they wreaked to each other. 

Book and bag in hand, Lexi’s feet carry her away from Rue and out of Fez’s house for a night of wandering and searching. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, next chapter is gonna be really sad


	35. Nothing Gold Can Stay

Lexi hasn’t spent much of her life in places of worship. Her family only went to church on Easter and Christmas for the sake of appearances, and after she grew up and moved out, the one time Lexi came back to God’s house was for a funeral. That’s how the church came to remind her of death. 

So naturally, church is where she ended up tonight. 

In all fairness, she’s here because her feet hurt. Since she left Rue at Fezco’s house she’s burned a couple of hours with aimless walking. Now she’s exhausted and needed somewhere to rest, even if a hard wooden pew doesn’t provide much relief. And she wouldn’t be here if she had anywhere else to go. Her apartment is under siege by a serial killer, she can’t go back to work yet, and the only person she trusts might not be so trustworthy. 

The sanctuary’s empty save for an elderly man lighting one of the votive candles near the alter. From the far side of a pew in the back, Lexi watches the man tediously descend to his knees and pray in front of the Blessed Sacrament. 

She assumes he’s probably a serial killer too—could be the Doodler, or that Highway of Tears guy, or even the Zodiac. At the very least this man has a guilty conscience, because why else would you end up here in church in the middle of the night?

The alter, the sacrament, the candles may be emblems of salvation, but they offer Lexi little hope or comfort. She’d had nearly enough of symbols, the most potent of which she holds in her hands: _Hidden Staircase._ Cassie preferred _Magic Tree House,_ but Lexi was always drawn to Nancy Drew. In every story there was always a clear delineation between good and bad, a restoration of justice, and proper closure that gave Lexi a hopeful, if unrealistic, view of life. 

There’s no telling how Rue ended up with this artifact of her childhood. Maybe it was a truly innocent find. Maybe Rue was looking for a stash spot. The sad thing is that Lexi still doesn’t know which. She wants to trust Rue because, even after all this, she sees someone wonderful and remarkable and deserving of the best. Does the answer even matter? She’s accepted that, no matter what Rue does or says, no matter how many mistakes they make, Lexi is fundamentally unable to stop loving her. Even after tonight. 

Unfortunately it’s hard to square the potential she sees with the dark side of Rue, at worst a liar and manipulator, at best cruel enough to weaponize Lexi’s insecurities out of spite. 

Rue’s stinging words linger as fog in her mind. The worst part is that those words were exactly right. Rue so easily parsed her hypocrisy, her gravitation to the perverse comfort of sadness. 

Hoping Nancy can solve this problem for her, she absently flips through her book when the pages abruptly break open at a photograph wedged tightly into the binding of the last section. 

The center of Lexi’s chest burns as she stares down at the image of her and her sister. 

“What am I doing?” she wonders aloud as she rubs her fingers over the crease of her forehead. The question is met with silence. 

She can’t find the answers in a book. The memories from that forsaken corner of Lexi’s mind, are summoned forward to help her try and understand.  
  


* * *

  
**Two weeks after Salinas**

“Here’s to the hero!” 

Five glasses clinked together at the toast, and while everyone else tossed back their drinks, Lexi opted to sip hers. Even at her own celebration it didn’t feel right for her to indulge. 

“The Serrano Cartel,” McKay led as he poked at his food, “were those the guys who chopped off the undercover cop’s head in Tijuana? They’re fucking scary man.”

“Chris, we’re trying to eat,” Cassie groaned as she dropped her fork on her plate and shot him a look. 

Striving to avoid any tension tonight, Lexi tried to play peacemaker between the couple. “No, yeah, that’s the one. We weren’t looking into that incident though. We were focused on the human trafficking aspect.”

Connery (her boyfriend at the time) stretched his arm around her and kissed her cheek. “When my girl decides she wants to do something there’s no stopping her!”

“Wow, you really know my Lexi,” Suze chipped. She was working through her third glass of wine, and mixed with the champagne, she was already too tanked to participate in the conversation beyond occasional snide comments.

“You know,” an oblivious Connery continued, “Lexi didn’t just break the whole investigation open. She went right down to that motel in Salinas and found all those victims herself.”

“That’s not really what happened, it was part of a whole operation that we planned—.”

Interest piqued, McKay cut of Lexi’s disclaimer. “You were on the scene? What was it like?”

“After SWAT cleared it, yeah. I was on the recovery team.”

“Must’ve been a real hell hole,” Suze mumbled into the wine glass before taking a sip.

A dozen chilling images of the scene in that motel, those victims flickered through Lexi’s mind. She was brought back to the present by Connery’s hand, which slid under her skirt and up her thigh. She placed her hand on his to stop him and offered him a weak smile. He smiled back, still completely oblivious. 

Suze narrowed her eyes on Connery like she was aiming at a target. “So… _Connery_. Were your parents Bond fans or something?”

The boyfriend laughed politely. “It’s a family name. Goes back to my ancestors who immigrated here in the 18th century.”

“Wow, what an inheritance.” Suze replied flatly as she took another gulp of Chardonnay.

“Mom, stop.”

After shutting Suze up, Cassie looked to Lexi from across the table. She raised her eyebrows to wordlessly ask if she was really okay. Lexi nodded.

On the ride home from dinner Lexi leaned against the window in the backseat, silent and sullen. 

As they pulled up to Lexi’s house McKay and Cassie exchanged knowing looks. “Hey, uh, mind if I use your bathroom?” McKay requested, for the sake of giving his wife a few minutes alone with her sister. 

“Knock yourself out.”

As McKay bolted inside Cassie took a seat on the porch, and Lexi sat down with her. The moment of calm was a balm to Lexi after this evening’s shitshow. 

“So... what’s up?” Cassie finally asked. 

“What’s do you mean?”

“You were really quiet tonight.”

“How is that weird? I’m always quiet.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow and frowned at her. 

Lexi sighed and rolled her neck. There was no such thing as avoiding the issue with her sister, who could always see right through her. 

“It was Mom.”

“Mom’s being a bitch, what else is new?” Cassie flashed a mischievous smirk and pulled a joint out of her purse. “Wanna share?”

“Cassie, I’m a federal agent. There’s no way I can do that.”

“Whoa, we’ve got ourselves a badass over here,” Cassie teased, bouncing her shoulders up and down. 

“I’m not a badass.”

“You are a total badass! You saved a bunch of people’s lives.”

“Okay,” Lexi grinned, “maybe a little badass. Just a little though.”

With a light laugh, Cassie turned the joint in her mouth for an even light, then puffed. 

“What if I get a... a contact high?”

“Then maybe you’ll relax for the first time in a decade.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Lexi lightly shoved Cassie and Cassie pushed her back, getting the night’s first genuine laugh out of Lexi. 

“Hey, remember when we accidentally ate weed brownies at that one party?”

“ _You_ accidentally ate one. _I_ knew what they were,” Cassie corrected.

“Oh my god,” Lexi giggled with her face in her hands, “I thought I was dying!” 

Cassie started to laugh with her and soon they were doubled over at the memory, the first time tonight Lexi was having fun. 

“Hey, speaking of kids, when am I gonna be an aunt?” she teased, knowing full well how much Cassie hated the topic. 

The question made Cassie groan. “Oh my god when are you gonna stop asking me that? Not for a long ass time... When we can afford a kid. That’s when.”

“I’d be a really fun aunt. Just saying.”

“I’m sure you will be.”

They shared another small laugh, then Lexi cleared her throat. “Hey, thank you for tonight. With Mom and, y’know, sticking up for me and stuff.”

“You know she’s proud of you, right?”

“Funny way of showing it.”

Cassie smiled knowingly. She rested her head on Lexi’s shoulder, just like they used to do when they sat on the front lawn, waiting for the dad who wasn’t coming. 

“Well, forget about her. _I’m_ proud of you, Lex.”   
  


* * *

  
**Three weeks after Salinas**

Media attention had reached a fever pitch. Now everyone wanted salacious details on the Serrano Cartel’s ring and the heroic agents who took it down—“Salinas saviors,” they were called. 

The credit was due to dozens of teams within the Bureau who spent hundreds of hours working to find the victims. But because she was responsible for a few critical breaks in the case, Lexi got pushed to the front as the face of the operation. 

The press conferences were tiring, the interviews awkward, the spotlight hot. She hadn’t asked for the attention. Yet always a good soldier, she went along with it under the assumption that the media would move on to the next big story soon enough. And though her position as a pseudo-celebrity involved some good-natured heckling from her colleagues, she didn’t completely hate finally getting some credit for all the hard work. 

Attention, as she would soon discover, is a double-edged sword. Affiliates of the cartel were also watching. Waiting. Ready to exact their particular brand of revenge.

A week after the celebration dinner Cassie called. “I’m coming to drop off your clothes.”

“Why do you have my clothes?”

“From when your dryer broke, and you brought a whole basket over here to finish your laundry, and then you forgot that you brought it. These clothes have been sitting at my house for ten days.”

Lexi had been so scatterbrained over the past few weeks that she hasn’t even realized she was missing half of her wardrobe. “Shoot, sorry. I can pick them up later.”

“No, it’s okay,” Cassie swore, “I’m in the area anyway.”

Lexi should’ve pushed back, told her not to come. But she didn’t. 

It was all so unremarkable. Cassie texted that she was outside. Lexi headed to the door to greet her sister for a mundane visit that, on a normal day in a normal world, neither of them would think twice about. 

But not today. This was the day the world broke. 

Bullets ripped through the door and windows, passing mere inches from Lexi as she dropped to the floor. She stayed on the ground, hands over her head, paralyzed for a few eternal seconds until the shots stopped and the sound of screeching tires signaled the escape of the attackers. 

She didn’t even want to move, though her mind screamed, _begged,_ her to get up. So she forced herself onto her feet, rankling off the shards of glass that had landed on her. The front door was now splintered and allowed a speckle of outside light through the holes. The only sound she could hear was her own breathing—irregular, haggard. 

There were no questions of ‘who’ or ‘why’ on her mind. Not yet. Her sole concern in this moment was if Cassie was okay, but even before she got off the floor, she already knew the answer. 

Lexi has endlessly searched Cassie’s last moments for anything that could possibly justify the cruelty of what happened. But those last moments weren’t profound. There was no climactic goodbye. Cassie didn’t impart any poetic last words in her dying breaths. There was nothing beautiful about watching her die. Instead, Lexi saw her eyes glaze over as she bled out, listened to her last breaths rattle through the thick fluid pooling in her lungs. She didn’t look peaceful; she looked scared. 

After a lifetime together, that’s the last memory she got to have with her sister.

Lexi wished the ringing in her ears would stop. 

The wail of sirens only registered as distant echoes, and the voice of the paramedic didn’t register at all. He was asking her questions she couldn’t answer while he placed a blood pressure cuff around her arm. She looked past him and stared at that dark red spot on the green grass where her sister had just been. She stared at that spot until her eyes began to burn, and then she had to force herself to blink. There one moment, gone the next. Blink of an eye. 

She wrapped the mylar blanket tight around herself and took in a shaky breath. Just a week ago she and Cassie sat in this very spot. If she had known that would be their last time together she would’ve shared that joint. She would’ve said to Cassie everything she never got to say. 

Lexi wasn’t left alone on the stoop for long. The next stop was the police station. Before she was interviewed she handed over the clothes stained with her sister’s blood, which was bagged and tagged as evidence. They gave her some scratchy, ill-fitting training sweats as a replacement. They offered her wet wipes to clean the blood off of her arms and hands and she refused them. Then she had to spend the next three hours recounting every second, every detail of what had just unfolded, only deepening within Lexi’s mind the fresh wound of the memory. 

There was nowhere else to go after the interview was over. Her home was a crime scene. So she rode to her mother’s house in the back of a cop car that smelled like Lima beans. 

The police had already informed Suze, who was despondent when Lexi arrived. McKay was there too, and he just sat there with a thousand-yard stare as he tried to accept the unthinkable. It wasn’t real for them yet because they hadn’t borne witness to what happened. They weren’t there. They didn’t see everything. 

Lexi stood in the foyer, watching them come undone with grief. All she could think about was how itchy the sweatsuit was. How itchy her skin felt with this blood still on it. 

When she could finally take a shower, she stood under that scalding hot water until her skin blistered.   
  


* * *

  
**One month after Salinas**

The funeral was gauche. Cassie would’ve hated it. She would’ve spent the service whispering sarcastic commentary while Lexi tried not to laugh. 

After the ceremony she and McKay stood outside, ready to head to the cemetery for the burial, when they realized Suze was still in the chapel. So Lexi went back inside to retrieve her. 

“The limo’s waiting. We need to go.”

From her seat in the front pew, Suze didn’t turn around. 

Lexi walked up the aisle, and once she saw her mom up close, she knew immediately. “You’re drunk,” she stated in disbelief. Not that she should’ve been surprised. 

“I’m _grieving_. I’m entitled to it.”

“You’re drunk at your daughter’s funeral.”

“And you’re here too. Guess we both have no shame.” Suze wouldn’t even look at Lexi. 

“Where else would I be? Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“Because it’s your fault.” Now Suze turned to her, her glassy eyes filled with contempt. “You put a target on our whole family’s back when you got mixed up in that cartel business,” she spat with cold inflection. “She’d still be here if it weren’t for you.”

The words ripped through Lexi like bullets.

There was no saving Cassie once she was hit. At least that’s what the coroner said. He probably told Lexi this to make her feel better, implying there was nothing Lexi could’ve done, which wasn’t true. How many times had Lexi been presented the opportunity to avert disaster? If only she’d remembered to pick up her laundry sooner, or gone to Cassie instead of letting Cassie coming to her, or opted out of running point on the media inquiries, or stayed the hell away from Salinas, or chosen another profession entirely. So many variables could have changed the outcome. Instead, Lexi bulled ahead until the damage left in her wake was irreparable and the blood was, in a very real sense, on her hands.  
  


* * *

  
**Present day**

After the old man leaves, Lexi finds herself alone with Cassie. She sets the photograph on the hymnal rack and stares at their younger selves. This picture evokes no warmth in her. 

You can’t choose which events preserve themselves as flashbulb memories. Usually, though, it’s the most emotionally significant, meaning the worst moments are the ones you remember best.

The day this picture was taken wasn’t traumatic, so Lexi had almost forgotten about it. Dad ran outside and took this while she and Lexi were waiting for the bus. It was Cassie’s freshman year of high school, Lexi’s last in middle school, and she had been so nervous to get off the bus and go to morning assembly without Cassie.

Eighth grade was a particularly lonely year since she and her sister were at different schools. It was the same loneliness Lexi felt acutely when she struck out to the other side of the country, making it on her own as a student in DC and then as a trainee at Quantico. She wanted badly to escape her life in California, but so long as Cassie was there, Lexi knew where she needed to be.

“Remember when Mom and Dad used to make us go to the Christmas Eve service? And we never understood why because it’s not like we were Christians. We didn’t even pray before dinner.”

She laughs at herself, her self-awareness interrupting her line of thought. 

“Just because I’m talking to myself doesn’t mean I’m losing it,” she tries to explain to Cassie. “I know you can’t hear me or anything. Maybe I just... I just need to talk out loud for a little bit. Hear my own voice.”

A knot tightens in her throat, and she feels tears burning behind her eyes, but the catharsis of speaking aloud prevents her from halting her words. After so long, she’s finally telling her sister what she wished she could. 

“This isn’t what was supposed to happen. We were supposed to have each other’s backs for the rest of our lives. Now you’re gone and I’m still stuck here.”

With a deep breath, she tilts her head back and blinks back tears as she looks up to the vaulted ceiling. 

“You know, I… I tried to forget, and I tried to move on, but I couldn’t do either one. I can’t just leave you back there. Because I still can’t believe you’re gone. I thought after all this time I’d be used to it. I don’t think I can.”

That’s the sad truth of it, the reality she’s tried so desperately to defy. 

“I am never going to be able to get over it. Every day, for the rest of my life, I’m going to miss you and wonder what I could’ve done differently. You spent your whole life looking out for me and I couldn’t look out for you when it counted. I let you down. And I know, I _know_ , if you were here then you’d try to tell me it’s not my fault. But if it’s not my fault then it doesn’t make any sense and... and I need this to make sense! I need there to be a reason.”

The tears flow free of her own control now. She lets herself do it, release it all and try to experience her grief without the accompanying sense of blame she can’t escape. 

In some ways Lexi never left the porch, never shed the tinfoil cocoon she wrapped herself in. Following Cassie’s death, Lexi felt it all—the guilt, rage, sorrow, fear—so intensely that she chose to feel nothing instead. That’s how she got along for two years, trying to survive in this luminal space between life and death as if living on borrowed time.

Until she met Rue. 

Rue picked her up out of the passive despondency Lexi found so comfortable. Above all Rue gave her hope, and after what Lexi’s been through, hope is a terrifying risk. 

The answer to the Rue question is a painful one: if Lexi truly wants to help her partner, to allow the risk of trusting her, Lexi has to change alongside her. That’s the only way they can fight both of their battles. 

It’s true that Rue has failed deeply and consequentially in her life. So has Lexi. Neither can hold those mistakes against the other. They are the key to saving each other. In more ways than one, their survival depends on it.


	36. Fight or Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk what part we’re on now. Either part 4 or part 5. Let’s just call this the last part. If you’ve made it this far you are a real MVP. 
> 
> Also I’m not sure why I didn’t add this earlier but here’s the playlist I’ve been listening to while I write this! Feel free to check it out: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/44ufu7XTvUZ32FNajfvKAc?si=B5IN50L3ScaDMW2I4X3rDQ

Cal Jacobs was an obsessive man. Everyone always told Nate that’s who he got it from. 

Like father, like son? Not exactly. 

Cal would never have ended up where Nate now finds himself. He foresaw and neutralized every threat before it spun out of control, which was how he was able to keep his sordid second life under wraps for decades, a secret to everyone but Nate. 

In this respect, Nate wishes he was more like his father. Better foresight would have spared him the task ahead. 

In the early days of Nate’s Ritual, there was a beautiful purpose for everything he did. Even the untidy parts. Now instead of changing the world, he’s just running around fixing the problems created by the opposition. Apart from means justifying ends there’s nothing beautiful about this. A violation of the natural order, even. He shouldn’t have to sink to the level of the detective and the agent, his inferiors in every respect. But here he is, forcing himself into the muck to clean up his mess. 

At least it’ll be over soon. The sooner he can dispatch them, the sooner he can move on. 

He parks his truck a block from the duo’s apparent hideout to review the rules of engagement yet again. “Stick to the plan,” he repeats. “And don’t fire your gun unless you have to.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Maddy mutters. She shoves a loaded clip into her pistol and slaps Its heel for good measure. 

“This is just a smash and grab. We need to find out what they know and who else knows it,” he continues, though he knows that Maddy knows. 

The problem is that Maddy doesn’t see this task objectively. She’s not like him. Knowing the targets changes things for her, so Nate has to guide her through. It’s his last chance to regain control of the two problems facing him, and weakness cannot get in the way of what’s necessary. 

“If we let them go when this is all over, they’ll turn us in in a heartbeat. No amount of bargaining or threatening could change that. We only have one chance.”

“I know.”

“And after that, we’re gone. We’ll get out of here, somewhere they can’t find us, and we’ll never have to worry about any of this again. Just you and me the rest of the way.”

With a kiss on her gloved hand, he looks her in the eye so she knows he’s telling the truth. 

She’s sick of this. Weary of him. She doesn’t know that she is, but he sees it. He sees it in her heavy eyelids, her lips pressed against her teeth. Like he’s draining the life out of her, a meandering version of his ritual. 

“Maddy. I love you.”

She freezes at the words for a moment, then wrests her hand out of his and leans over to kiss him. There’s visceral urgency in the way she forces her lips against his, as if this kiss is an effort to convince herself she hasn’t gone too far down the wrong path. 

As soon as they pull back she turns away from him, sets her ski mask on top of her head so she’s ready to pull it down over her face. 

“I love you too.”

* * *

  
Rue has always detested country music, so it feels like an appropriate punishment to play “Drivin’ Nails in My Coffin” while she waits for Lexi to come back. What she’s punishing herself for, she’s not entirely certain. She didn’t do what Lexi thinks she did. She never lied. Her worst mistake came from going too far and saying too much. So did Lexi. That’s what people do when they’re mad at each other. 

For her part, she’s still reeling from when Lexi said she was crazy. Definitely not the first time she’s been called that, nor the last. But coming from Lexi, it hurt more. She thought Lexi could see past that. Maybe Lexi never did. Maybe there was nothing deeper to see. 

Now they both need space to recover, though her partner’s absence gnaws deeper with every passing second. 

In the past, when Jules fell asleep and Rue couldn’t stand to lie awake in her own thoughts, she would go walking. There was never a destination in mind starting out, but every time she ended up in the same place: anywhere that would sell her booze. She’d dance through the charade of buying only beer, then opting for a quarter pint instead, then clearing the bottle on an ambling walk home.

This time she wouldn’t even need to leave the house. There’s whole bottles in Fez’s kitchen. She could fix herself a drink right now and have it finished by the time Lexi gets back. Just one drink, one small lift to get her through this terrible waiting. 

Peace has always eluded Rue, long before the nightly drunken walks. Her mother said that she never stopped crying when she was a baby, as if even then she knew she could never be happy. That’s how Rue interpreted the anecdote. 

This idea doesn’t sit right anymore. It’s a choice, isn’t it? You play with the cards you’re dealt. The only agency you have is whether you want to smile or frown while you play your hand. You see the pain or the potential. 

If she takes that step, fixes that drink, she’s giving up. She’s not going to go through that again. And this time, it’s because she’s strong enough. She can’t find answers in a bottle. She won’t even find peace in it. That’ll only come when her partner is with her again, for the guarantee of Lexi’s safety and for the comfort of her presence.

So despite what’s taken place, she holds in her a silent confidence that Lexi will come back tonight. 

It’s a good feeling, but an unfamiliar one. She never felt that with Jules. The whole time they were together there was this big red flag flapping in the back of Rue’s mind, the premonition that one day Jules would take off for the inevitable next step and Rue would stay on the launchpad, still trapped on Earth. 

She may very well be misguided to think Lexi would be any different. But this  _ feels _ different, and in the agony of waiting, Rue’s going to cling to that hope because it’s the only play she can make. She stares at the ceiling and listens to her punishment, dies a little more inside with each twang of the steel guitar. 

As someone always looking for the answer, not knowing what comes next is torturous. All she can do is wait. Patience is another quality that always eluded her. 

The couple dozen texts she sent Lexi have gone unanswered, which is what worries her most. The love of her life is out wandering around alone in the middle of the night, and like a fucking idiot, Rue didn’t go after her. Rue should’ve gone after her. What the hell was she thinking?

She hears the quiet thump of the front door closing, and the knot in her stomach loosens somewhat with relief that Lexi got home safe. She pauses the music and sits up to greet her partner and shower her with apologies. 

Then there’s the sound of breaking glass. Then a loud thud of a heavy weight hitting the floor. 

That’s not Lexi. 

Though the hair on the back of her neck rises and her muscles go rigid in fear, Rue doesn’t let herself stay paralyzed. 

She searches the room for a weapon but finds nothing. Escape isn’t an option because of the bars on the windows. She’s trapped in here. 

This is that “fight or flight” moment everyone faces eventually, and as it turns out, Rue is the fighting type. 

She runs into the bathroom on the balls of her feet and pushes a makeshift barricade against the door to buy her a few more seconds, then pulls up Lexi’s contact information. A call? Bad idea. Can’t make any noise. 

They’re in her room. 

She has enough time to type out one text before she hears the footsteps outside the door. 

The doorknob’s wiggling. 

Rue pulls the SIM card out of her phone and swallows it, then breaks her phone in half. 

Someone’s slamming against the door and the lock’s splintering. 

She tears the shower curtain rod down and wields it for a last stand just before the door breaks open and, for the first time, Rue finally meets the ghost she’s been chasing. 

* * *

“Ma’am?”

Startled awake by the unfamiliar voice, Lexi still needs a few seconds to register where she is and what she’s doing here. Based on the light filtering through the stained glass windows it must be morning, meaning she spent the night in church… like a weirdo. 

Flushed and embarrassed, she sits herself up and rolls her neck gently. She’s stiff, and has to be careful not to aggravate the crick she gained from using a stack of hymnals as a pillow. Her eyes burn from irritation, the result of having slept with her contacts in. 

“There’s a women’s shelter a couple miles from here we can take you to,” the man offers as he leans against his mop. 

“Oh, no. That’s really nice of you. I’m okay though,” Lexi says half-apologetically. “Do you know what time it is?”

He rolls up the sleeve of his coveralls the check his watch. “Quarter to seven.”

So not only has she been gone all night, but she never replied to any calls or texts. Rue must be worried sick right now if she isn’t still angry. 

“Do you have a phone charger?”

“Think there’s one in the pulpit,” the janitor mumbles as he turns away to resume mopping. 

Something feels sacrilegious about hiding a phone charger in a pulpit. Almost as sacrilegious as charging your phone next to the alter. As Lexi waits for her phone to turn on, she sits against the wall and thinks through her turbulent night—fighting, wandering, searching, mourning. No wonder she woke up exhausted. 

And there’s still a long day ahead of her. As soon as she goes back to Fezco’s, she’s going to have to answer a lot of questions. Questions about their relationship, about her sister, her past. Everything she likes to keep hidden and that she hides so well. 

But Rue needs answers, and Lexi supposes Rue deserves them too. 

After a few minutes to charge her phone finally lights up, the home screen blank for a few seconds until it fills with all the texts and calls Rue sent last night. Lexi skims the column of “im sorry” and “where are you?” texts before her eyes settle on the most recent message.

_ Get out of here _

_  
_ What an… abrasive? ominous? thing to say. With a fortifying breath, she calls and prepares for an uncomfortable conversation with someone clearly still angry at her. 

_ I’m sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service, please— _

Confused, Lexi pulls the phone away from her ear and checks if she has the right number. When she calls again and receives the same message, her hands begin to tremble despite herself. 

Something’s wrong here.

She checks the thought as soon as it crosses her mind. No point in jumping to conclusions, right? No hitting the panic button yet. As soon as she gets back to the hideout and talks to Rue it’ll all make sense. 

Everything does make sense when Lexi gets to Fezco’s house. Just not the way she intended. 

Police tape, squad cars, an ambulance. Flashing emergency lights and 

Just like two years ago. The implication is clear. 

Rue’s dead. 

A cold chill pierces her all the way down to the marrow in her bones. 

She left Rue to die. 

Her heartbeat slows to a near-stop and the blood rushes to her ears. The world goes silent.

She looks around and slowly regains herself into unbelief. This is the standard response to a burglary, not a homicide. There’s no coroner. No CSI. Only three squad cars. There’s a chance no one’s dead. 

Still, Lexi doesn’t allow herself to celebrate. Not until she hears what happened. 

She finds Fezco sitting on a gurney next to an ambulance, eyes fixed in a thousand yard stare. There’s a gash above his left eye that’s already bled through the bandage. Lexi does her best to avoid looking at the wound. 

“I didn’t say nothin’ to the cops about her, man. Swear.” He clenches his jaw and exhales a trembling breath. 

She knows how to handle shock, having experienced it herself a time or two. She puts her hand on his shoulder to regain his attention. “Breathe through your nose. Can you feel yourself sitting?”

He blinks quickly and refocuses his eyes on her, then nods. 

“You with me?”

He nods again. 

“What happened?” she questions gently. “Keep breathing.”

He takes a deep breath and exhales with a shudder. “It was a few hours ago. I heard someone, went to check it out... next thing I know I’m knocked out cold, I tried to… I—... Rue was gone when I woke up. They got her somewhere.”

Lexi shuts her eyes. Her heart plummets. Bile rises up her throat from motion sickness because the world’s tilting off its axis once again. 

“Oh my god,” Fez moans again, rocking back in his seat. “I fuckin’ fucked up. She’s gone.”

Lexi swallows, primes herself to say something, anything of comfort but she can’t do it. There’s only one way forward, and there’s no time to waste on words. 

“Where’s a gun?”

Fez looks up at her with eyebrows knit in concern. “What?”

“She’s still out there. I’m gonna find her. If I can’t find her, no one else will.”

He takes a deep breath and drops his head. “Ain’t got no guns. Cops just cleared my house out.”

“Okay...” Lexi’s eyes roll up while she sifts through her remaining options. “Then I need your car.”


	37. Mind Game

“Mexico. We’re three hours from Mexico.”

“Greenland.”

“Why would we go all the way to Greenland? Nobody lives in Greenland.”

“That’s the point.”

“I would literally rather go to hell than Greenland.”

“Okay, we’ll compromise. Alaska.”

“That’s not a fucking compromise Nate!”

If listening to this conversation is part of some 4D chess strategy to get Rue to talk, then Perez and her Strangler boyfriend must be a couple of evil geniuses. It’s more agonizing than any physical form of torture. She leans back against the chair’s hard wooden backrest and winces, wishes she were still unconscious and unaware of her predicament. 

The windowless room makes it impossible to figure out what time it is or how long she’s been here. The air is stale and the stacked boxes in the corner are layered with dust and cobwebs. Must be private property, away from prying eyes who could rescue her. It wouldn’t be an easy escape. 

She could try. Give her some time and she could maneuver her way out of the chair she’s tied to. 

And after that? How far could she make it when everything’s fuzzy and the lights are too bright and she’s sick to her stomach? It’s hard to come up with an escape plan, or any plan to defend yourself, when your brain’s been scrambled out of its ability to function properly. 

Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but she probably isn’t going to make it out of here alive. 

“I don’t know why you’re being so difficult about this,” Nate shouts as he places his hands on his hips like a frustrated principal. 

“We need to be somewhere we actually want to live.”

“It’s not a fucking vacation, Maddy. We’ll be on the run.”

“Hi. Hey. Hello,” Rue cuts in. “Whatever you’re planning on doing, can you go ahead and get it over with?”

Nate turns to Maddy and whispers something in her ear. Then he steps out, leaving the two detectives for some awkward one-on-one time. 

“Perez.”

“Bennett.” 

“Your boyfie’s great. You should bring him to happy hour sometime. Daniel would love him.”

Maddy shakes her head, unmoved by the quip. “You don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to love someone so much you’ll do whatever it takes to help them.” Maddy states it so simply. As if the situation were really that simple too. As if every atrocity could be explained by its best intentions. 

“And that involves killing people?”

“We’re like Bonnie and Clyde. From  _ Bonnie and Clyde _ . You know, Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway?” 

“This isn’t a damn movie, Perez!” Rue tugs against her restraints digging into her wrists, feeling out any weaknesses in the binding. “Bonnie and Clyde were real people, by the way. Guess how they died.”

“You’re talking a lot of shit for someone tied to a chair.”

“Perez—,” Rue falters, desperation rising in her voice. “Maddy, seriously. That man does not love you. You’re  _ useful _ to him. When you’re not useful anymore he’s gonna do to you what he’s done to all these other women.”

Maddy blinks quickly, then shakes her head. “Okay sorry, but that’s not gonna happen. You think you know what you’re talking about, but you don’t.”

“Have you even—.”

“Just shut the fuck up!” Maddy snaps. Her hands within closer reach of her gun than Rue would like, so Rue does what she’s told and shuts the fuck up. For a few seconds. 

“What’s Ali gonna think when I vanish into thin air?”

“That’s your track record. You already vanished into thin air once.”

“Is he going to kill me when this is over?”

Maddy stays silent, but the answer is clear from the expression on her face. Despite her bluster there’s a softness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. 

Rue allows another beat of silence. “I mean, I knew there was a mole. I knew that. You were one of my suspects but I didn’t think it was you. I didn’t think you were capable of  _ this _ .”

Maddy’s hands drop from her belt but her shoulders stiffen. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been such a cunt to your coworkers.”

“Yeah, I wonder why I’m a cunt at work when I have such  _ awesome _ coworkers like you,” Rue hisses as Nate strolls back into the room. 

“She’s driving me crazy, Nate!”

He smirks as if amused by the situation. “I’ll keep an eye on her. Go get the agent,” Nate orders with a head tip to the door. 

The agent. Lexi. She’s still out there. Rue keeps her poker face, trying not to yield the rush of emotions the thought summons. 

Maddy looks between Rue and Nate, a shadow of trepidation in her face. She hesitates, then grabs her jacket and closes the door behind her. 

With just Rue and Nate, the room suddenly feels even smaller and more confining. 

“So, the famous Rue Bennett!” He doesn’t turn around as he talks, keeping his back toward her while he fiddles with something on the counter. “I’ve really been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Oh, I wanted to meet you too. Under different circumstances.”

“I thought you’d find me faster.”

“Kind of hard to compete when you rigged the game.”

“Play to win, Detective.” 

Rue swallows, mouth dry as sand and throat burning. “Did you kill my friend?”

“Who? That drug dealer? I have no idea. Doesn’t matter.” He turns around with a fake smile and a paper cup in hand. “Care for a drink?”

“Pass.”

“You sure?” He waves the cup under her nose so that vapors of whiskey fill her nostrils, clouding her head even worse than before. “Let’s work together here. Figure out where the agent is. If you help me, I can help you.”

“Let’s not.”

“Where’s your SIM card?”

“I ate it.” 

Nate’s lips curl and he stands up, splashes the whiskey in her face. 

“You know,” she pushes, “when Tyler was arrested it really bugged me. He just didn’t look like the type. But you? Yeah, you’re much closer to what I was picturing. Definitely get murderer vibes from you.”

Nate lets out a cold, mirthless laugh. “Why don’t you set aside the ‘rebel without a cause’ gimmick and take a look around? You’ve got nobody to impress right now. No one to fool into thinking you’re big and bad.”

The sticky liquid drips off her jaw, dripping onto her shirt and the pungent smell threatens to make her sick. 

“Y’know, here’s something I wanted to tell the Strangler—great job on the name! I know it’s hard to separate yourself from all the other serial killers, but ‘Sandman Strangler’ just... sticks.”

The remark earns her a slap across the face, drawing blood from a split in the corner of her bottom lip and rattling her brain once again, which sends the room spinning. 

“DO NOT, SAY, THAT NAME.”

Nate recoils and strides across the room, hands clasped behind his head while he heaves breaths. “What I do... what I create... is beauty. And what do the local news did? They massacred it with a stupid tag line.”

“Yeah, right, beauty. Like what you did to Mara Kemp?” 

He turns and stares at her, a cold stare the only reply he can summon at the mention of this name. For a moment she wonders if she’s gone too far, pushed the wrong buttons, as he sits down across from her and settles in. 

“They don’t understand. They don’t see it,” he finally states. He lets the silence hang before speaking again, voice lower and softer. “You’re very smart, Detective.”

“Wow. Thank you Nate. That means a lot.”

“And you even found my notebook!”

“Your handwriting sucks.” 

“Never was much for penmanship,” he shrugs. “See, I like keeping notes on people. Helps me get to know them without ever talking to them. Want to know what I have on you?” 

He licks his fingers as he flips through the pages. “Ah, here we go. Rue Bennett: ‘chronic alcohol abuse, mixed bipolar, likely OCD.’ ‘Serious problem with authority’... charming. And... uh oh, sleeping with your partner?” He tsks at her and shakes his head. 

Her facade falters for just one moment, enough for Nate to smell the fear like a shark to blood. His lips curl back into that blank, plastered-on smile. 

“Must be complicated. You should see the look on your face.”

She bites her tongue and swallows her fury, unwilling to yield. Her head’s throbbing now, overworked in its damaged state. 

“Come on, let’s talk about it! Are you sure you really have feelings for her? Or are you just looking for something to fix?”

It takes all of the effort Rue has to maintain a mask of composure, like a wounded animal feigning ferocity to scare off a predator. If only it fooled him. 

“See, I don’t want to hurt you, Rue. I actually have a little respect for you. But your partner?” 

He leans in close, past her personal boundary so she can feel his breath. “If it’s what it takes to get you to talk, I promise I have no reservations about hurting her. And you’ll sit right next to her and watch it all until you tell me every single thing: who else you told, what you told them, where you hid the evidence. All that jazz. So don’t talk now. It’s fine. But eventually, when one of you can’t take it anymore, you  _ will _ tell me everything I need to know.”

Rue shakes her lolling head, blinks quickly while spots cloud her vision. The ringing in her ears keeps growing louder, making it harder to focus. She’s not going to last. Not like this. So she lets her desperation bleed through. 

“She doesn’t believe me. Said I was crazy. Said I was drinking again. It’s over. She’s done with me.”

Nate leans even closer. “Tell me where the agent is, tell me where the evidence is, and I’ll let you go. Hand to God.”

She gulps for air and nods. With a hollow smile, he stands and starts to type out a text. 

“You know what I think, Nate?” 

“Start with the agent. We’ll go from there.”

She smirks up at him. “I think all your life, you thought you were the hero of the story. That’s what everyone told you.”

His smile fades now, realizing she didn’t take the bait after all.

“Then somewhere along the way life hit and you realized you aren’t the center of the fucking universe. And you just couldn’t handle that, could you, with that fragile ego? So what do you do next? What’ll set you apart from everyone who’s just like you: the Joes who think they’re special when they just... aren’t?”

She’s struck again with another open handed slap. Her brain is throbbing, worsened by the one light in the room that seems to shine directly on her while the rest of the room spins. She pushes through it, halting the spinning room and bringing reality back into focus once again. 

“You know how they’re gonna remember you?”

He doesn’t answer. His fists curl and face streaks red. 

“You won’t even be infamous. The world’s gonna remember you as someone so weak and fucked in the head that he killed people, because he was too much of a fuck-up to do anything better.”

She’s barely finished when the muzzle of a gun presses her forehead.

“You feeling strong? Go ahead! Keep talking!”

She doesn’t push her luck but stares up at him, silent yet defiant. Because he can’t kill her. Not yet. And she knows it. 

He lowers the gun, runs his fingers through his hair. He’s always backed down when he turns and shoves her with a scream, sending her into the ground in a now-broken chair. Her head smacks the floor, cluttering her sight with stars that almost overtake her. Yet she still holds out, because she’s not done yet. She has him right where she wants him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pacing what’s that


	38. This Is How It Ends (Part 1)

While driving for the first time in a decade, Lexi caused a minor car wreck on the way here. Didn’t even pull over. Why? Because that would have distracted her. 

The moment she realized Rue had been taken, her whole being dedicated itself to a single mission: find her, get her out of danger. Nothing else matters. To catch the Strangler, close the case, notch another big win for the Bureau... what’s it for without Rue alive and safe?

She’s on a mission now, and if she fails… She can’t let herself consider that possibility yet. In the face of danger, her only present fear is failure. 

Lexi parks Fez’s car in the empty lot across from the alley—Rue’s alley. Waiting for her under the drivers seat is the gun she stashed during their little car chase last night. 

_ Last night.  _ Only a few hours ago she and Rue were together, things were normal—not actually normal, but the normal they’d carved out in the chaos. They were okay. 

She hops the fence and goes to the familiar orange door that Rue always smoked next to while Lexi watched her. The same rusty dumpsters and water-stained crates line the alley, as if nothing here’s changed, only the whole world outside of it. 

All it takes is one moment to lose everything. Lexi’s learned that the hard way. She’s not going to let it happen again. 

The weight of Fez’s gun focuses her. She’s comfortable with a Glock 22, standard issue for the Bureau, but this weapon is an entirely different beast, twice as big as her hand with bullets as thick as her thumbs. She just hopes she doesn’t have to use it. 

Her hands shake just as they did at Fez’s house. She clenches them into fists around the grip.

Along with the heater, all Lexi has is one lead that Rue left her. No resources from the Bureau. No partner to back her up. Just one ribbon left to follow. 

* * *

Lexi finds Officer Custer in a setting befitting his character. She locks the bathroom door behind her and waits, stares at him until he can feel her eyes burning into his back. 

He barely turns around from the urinal when he notices her staring. “This is the men’s room. Get the fuck outta here.”

“Where is Rue?”

“Who the hell is Rue?”

“Rue Bennett. Detective fucking Bennett. Where is she?”

“How should I know?” He’s struggling to zip up his fly as he turns around, and stops when he recognizes her. “Hey, you’re that FBI agent... Weren’t you two partners? Find her yourself.”

_ Enough small talk. _ Lexi raises her gun with one hand (knowing she’ll need both on the gun to fire it), and aims for his chest. 

“Take me to the Strangler.”

Custer’s suddenly very pale as he raises his hands above his head. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“Because you’re the one who’s working with him.”

He stares at her in slack-jawed disbelief. The face of either an idiot, or a man who truly has no idea what’s going on. Or both. 

“Rue said you signed off on the hair samples that ID’d Tyler Clarkson,” she reminds him. “You collected the samples and framed him. That was my fucking theory you tampered with, by the way.”

“M—Maddy... She oversaw the whole thing, okay? I just signed off on it.”

“Maddy? Detective Perez?”

He nods his head vigorously. 

“You’re lying.”

“No! No, I swear to god. I can prove it. Can I…” He gestures to his phone in his pocket and Lexi nods. 

When he shows her his proof she immediately slaps him across the face, leaving a small red handprint right on his cheek. 

“Ow! Hey!”

“Why the fuck are you showing me Pornhub?” 

“She said she’d buy me premium if I signed her paperwork and didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t ask why.”

Sure enough, Perez’s last name and billing address are listed in the account information.

“Look, check the date I signed up,” he pushes her. 

“Two days before the samples were signed over to us,” she whispers to herself. 

“See?”

She looks up at him, narrows her eyes. “Where is she now?”

“She was here earlier. Said she was gonna leave soon. Wait, so is Maddy…”

“I just need to talk to her.” Lexi scratches her head as she considers what to do next. “She drives you home from happy hour sometimes, right? What kind of car does she have?”

“Dark blue. Expensive. She said her boyfriend bought it for her.”

“A dark blue car?” Lexi laughs weakly. This whole time they’d been distracted with shadow puppets, chasing ghosts, when the truth was right in front of them from the very beginning. 

She turns to leave, stops, pulls Rue’s pocket knife and pokes the tip of it at his throat. 

“Tip her off, or breathe one word of this to anyone else, and I will find you and stick this through the middle of your fucking trachea.” 

With this parting assurance she backs off, never fully taking her eyes off of him. “And zip up your damn fly,” she hisses as she slips out of the bathroom. 

* * *

It doesn’t matter whether that FBI bitch is running from them or going after them them. Nate wants her. Time’s running out to find her. And Maddy can’t come back empty-handed. 

She’s lost in thought on the walk to her car. She sticks the key in her ignition, closes her eyes. How easy it would be just to take off without looking back. Escape. Taste freedom. 

Not that she would. She’d never do that to Nate. And he wouldn’t do that to her. 

Wouldn’t he?

When she opens her eyes again, only then does she see the wires yanked out from under the steering wheel. 

“Turn the car off.”

Maddy gasps, startled by the familiar voice in her ear. Her heart only beats faster when she sees a gun’s muzzle in the corner of her eye. 

“Keep your hands on the wheel. Where’s your sidearm?” 

Maddy’s almost doesn’t cooperate. Almost. But her options are limited, and she knows Agent Howard has every reason to kill her, and truth is Maddy doesn’t want to die today. “My belt. Right side.” 

Time’s running out—Maddy knows that, and Lexi does too. So after disarming the detective Lexi wastes no more of it. 

“Where’s Rue?”

“I don’t—.”

“I know you’re the one helping the Strangler. No more bullshit. Where is she?” Lexi states each word calmly and evenly. With a gun in her hand, there’s no need to raise her voice. 

Perez doesn’t move. For a tense few seconds they watch each other through the rear view mirror. 

“She’s with  _ him _ ,” Perez finally yields. 

“What’s his plan?”

Perez swallows thickly. “He had to know what Bennett’s figured out. Who else she told about her theory. I... I tried to talk him out of this, I—.”

“Is she still alive? Did he hurt her?” 

“She’s okay. Nothing fatal.”

Lexi’s starting to shake again, this time from anger. She fights the urge to press the gun into the back of the detective’s head. 

“I’m supposed to find you. That’s what he told me to do. He thinks you know everything Bennett knows because you and her are... working together.”

The detective’s eyes dart around the empty lot like she’s expecting an ambush. She hardly stops for a breath as she rambles, picking up speed with each quivering word. 

“He said once we find both of you, once you’re out of the way... We’re gonna get out of here and be done with all this and—,” she stops to catch her breath, “this is getting to him. He’s... erratic. Worse than he was.”

Perez stops and waits for a reply, but Lexi’s silent, thinking. 

Perez is afraid. Afraid of him and afraid for him. 

Lexi sees the opening. But if she wants to work with Maddy she’ll need to change her approach. 

“If we can get him in custody, at least they won’t let him hurt himself. Or Rue, or anyone else. In a way you’d be helping him before he makes it worse on himself.”

Perez stares at her, nods quickly, finding the idea a little easier to take when put in these terms.

Lexi studies Maddy. Then slowly, hesitantly, she sets the gun down. In some weird way, Perez is sort of a victim in this too. Lexi just can’t, in good conscience, train her gun on a victim. Even one she despises. 

She doesn’t let her guard down with it, and neither does Maddy, but as they stare each other down, they seem to come to an unspoken accord. 

Perez breaks away first and looks straight ahead,hands still on the steering wheel. “I’ll take you there. Call in a tip. Make sure he doesn’t kill Bennett first.”

Having secured a ride straight to the man who wants to kill her, Lexi’s about to do something even dumber. 

“Here. You’re gonna need this.” She extends the detective’s sidearm back to her along with Rue’s pocketknife, just in case it should come in handy. 

She notices how Perez’s finger grazes the trigger when she takes her gun back, and all Lexi can do is hope to god she’s not about to be double-crossed.


	39. This Is How It Ends (Part 2)

Nate the Strangler is a man on the edge. 

Pacing, whispering, even tapping his fingers to his palms. Rue recognizes all the tics. So she’s kept her eyes on him and her mouth shut. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

For while he scribbled little notes in his journal and distracted himself with going crazy, she went to work. Now she’s almost loosened the tie on her wrist enough to slip her hand through—almost, but not quite. And not quite is completely inadequate. 

“Did you find her?” 

Perez must be back. Rue lifts her head at the sound of Nate’s voice, though her neck can barely support the weight. Her heart pounds at the thought of what finding her coldly implies. 

Perez doesn’t reply. Her eyes scour the room as if she’s still looking for Lexi. 

The opposing detective is twiddling something in her hands—a pocketknife with a green handle that instantly Rue recognizes, filling her mind with equal parts hope and dread, questions she can’t articulate in her condition. 

“I’m not... I’m not sure.” There’s no confidence in Perez’s voice. 

Nate turns his head to the side. “I don’t understand.”

Just as Rue hopes that Perez will stick her knife in the middle of his chest, Perez tucks it away in her back pocket instead. She leans into him so he can hold her. 

_Snap out of it. Focus._

Rue pushes against the zip tie yet again until her arms tremble, slowly loosening the plastic. She flattens her palms together and pushes, tries to slide her hands through the loop and… it fit! Her hands are loose! She tries to hide a small gasp. Now to get her legs free...

The unhappy couple’s too distracted to notice. 

“We’re at the end of the road,” she tells him, voice muffled as her face is buried in his chest. 

“Not yet. Almost.”

“No.” Perez breaks from his arms and steps away. While her eyes drop from him Nate watches her without blinking. 

“We are. We’re so close,” he urges her. “Please.”

“I’m sorry.” Perez takes another step away from him, mouth hanging open but saying nothing else. 

“Maddy, we’ll figure it out later.”

“It’s over. All of it.”

The air’s sucked out of the room, pulling Rue back into the chasm splitting open in front of her. 

“What we’ve done, what you made me do... How could I... Why, Nate?” Her voice catches in her throat; tears run down her cheek. “God, I feel like I’ve been in a coma this whole time.”

Nate’s face falls, its creases smoothing into a completely blank mask clouded with realization that hasn’t dawned on Rue yet.

“You didn’t… Maddy?”

He steps toward her and she steps back again. 

She sets her hand on the top of her holster. He looks at her hand and then to her, his mask still blank and the eyes underneath small and black. 

They’re quiet. Still. This is unknown territory for them, here past the point of no return. 

Rue’s knows it. Feels it. She clinches her eyes shut. She doesn’t see who fires first. 

Just the sound of blasting paralyzes her and she assumes she’s just been killed, the only outcome that makes sense. 

One of them hits their mark and one of them misses. 

Her senses reactivate one at a time as the paralysis wears off. Sulfur in the air. Ringing in her ears. Her stomach drops when she realizes there’s someone else’s blood misted across her face.

She opens her eyes, looks down and... Perez— _Maddy_ — is on the floor. Rue stares at her, the crumpled form, a pool of blood spreading from beneath her. As she tried to absorb what happened, she draws in one stilted breath, then another, the pace quickening into hyperventilation. 

Nate slowly lowers his gun. He looks at the weapon in his hand then to the floor. The color returns to his eyes. 

“Maddy?”

No reply. No movement. 

“Maddy, get up.”

Rue can barely hear his voice. The ringing in her ears is still so loud. 

“Maddy!” he starts to shriek. The gun trembles in his unsteady hand. 

She’s drowning now, unable to remember how to breathe. 

Then she’s pulled back to the present by the fresh shock of Nate’s gun on her. 

“You have something to say?”

“No!” She shakes her head too fast. 

“You. You… You did this.”

The mask is gone, his damp face raw with despair and rage, his breaths turned to snarls from flared nostrils. The veins in his arms jut as he flexes his finger against the trigger. 

_So this is how it ends._

Rue doesn’t have time for another thought. 

_Pop!_

She jolts at the sound— a bullet hitting metal, definitely a gunshot. But not from Nate’s gun. 

Her eyes flutter open in surprise. 

“FBI!” It’s a voice, almost a scream, from somewhere near the front of the house. 

Lexi. 

Rue’s heart thuds. His lips twitch. 

Nate turns to the door. As if he’s been summoned by name, he lowers his gun and brushes past, strolls out of the room on the balls of his feet to greet his visitor. 

“Wait! Come back! Nate!”

Rue starts to thrash again, never closer or more desperate to escape. 

* * *

Feeling like a kid who’s waited too long for their parents to come out of the store, Lexi squirms in the backseat of Maddy’s car. 

She checks her phone again. She was supposed to get a signal when the room was safe but she’s gotten no calls, no texts, just radio silence. 

Something’s wrong. Right?

But what?

As she waits, however, she can’t ignore how her instincts scream at her not to just _sit there_. But what else can she do? Move in and jeopardize the plan she and Perez had made? After all, SWAT should be here in only ten or fifteen minutes. 

She steps out of the car and jogs up to the porch of the supposed hideout, puts her ear to the door and listens to the silence on the other side. 

She steps back. Checks her phone. Still nothing from Perez. 

So she steps back, sighs, sticks her hands in her pockets as she glances at the surrounding houses. 

In an instant the cacophony of loud pops ring out—multiple shots fired inside the house. Her gun’s already in hand before the last shot. 

She doesn’t flinch or hesitate—if Rue’s in there, neither of them can wait. 

She takes a step back and shoots the door’s lock, the kick so powerful it nearly knocks her on her feet. With a huge hole punched in the door and doorframe she’s able to push through the splintered door and breach the house. 

Inside it’s nearly empty, just like the apartment. Another safe house, this one just as foreboding as the last. 

“FBI!”

She hears clattering from another room, quiet muttering, breathing. She leans up against the wall, rounds the corner, clears the next room. Then there’s another noise, another room. 

That’s when she realizes she and the Strangler are essentially circling each other through the house. Cat and mouse. 

She’s breathing hard, squinting in the dull light of the cramped quarters as she moves her finger to the trigger. 

“Come out, come out!” 

“FBI!” She calls again. Though fear pulses through her she moves ahead by tiptoes.

“Too late, Lexi Howard.” The Strangler starts to chuckle to himself. “‘Her body is dissolving in a bathtub in Hell’s Kitchen’.”

Using her name. Talking in movie quotes. Laughing. Trying to screw with her.

He’s lost control. 

She presses her back against the wall and takes a deep breath. Then she pushes rounds the corner into the hallway, ready for the next room to clear when

_Bam!_

From out of her blind spot she’s slammed against the wall, knocking her gun out of her reach, a strong forearm pinning her until he gets two hands around her. 

The man from the street. The Strangler, those very hands are now around her neck, is able to crush her throat with ease as he pins her to the wall. 

Now that they’re face-to-face once again, Lexi’s not going to make it so easy. 

She swings her foot into his crotch and follows with a strike to his face that pops his nose under her palm. He stumbles back, hands clasped over his nose while she gasps for breath and swings her hardest punch into his jaw. 

The hit barely phases him. He straightens up and slaps her in the temple, dropping her to the floor. 

As stars clutter her vision she looks up, straight into the barrel of a gun aimed to kill and behind it the Strangler looming over her, his black eyes fixed on her and blood gushing from his nose while he seethes and froths. 

It’s a choice of distance and time: she could move left to for her gun, or right to try and escape. Regardless of the direction she goes, he’s going to kill her before she makes it. 

In real time it takes Lexi half a second to decide, but the moment between when she sees his gun in her face, and when she moves, is a lifetime in itself. 

Her life doesn’t flash before her eyes. What she mind summons, of all things, is a daydream she had back when Rue was just her crush. A vision that they would make it. That somewhere down the they would be happy, and things would finally be simple for them. 

As she looks down that black hole of the gun’s chamber, it’s not the past that flashes before her eyes. It’s the future. 

So Lexi doesn’t run. She moves forward. 

* * *

“Come on you goddamn motherfucking piece of shit!” 

Rue rages as she writhes against the last zip tie on her ankle, which is so tight against the chair’s leg that her foot’s gone numb. She doesn’t have time to deal with this when Lexi needs her and Rue’s still stuck in here with this stupid motherfucking chair. 

Her injured brain is begging for rest but she continues to push. She can still barely hear the voices with the ringing in her ears, enough to let her know she still has time. She blinks her eyes to focus, sets her jaw and limps across the room, dragging the heavy chair behind her with one leg. 

“Perez? Maddy?” she whispers as she leans over the body. There’s no pulse. 

The shock of seeing her colleague like this is almost too much. But then she hears thuds in the next room, a man’s grunt and an angry shout she immediately recognizes as Lexi’s. 

Overwhelmed with new urgency, she pulls the from Maddy’s pocket and cuts herself. Her head spins as she stands up straight, trying to adjust herself to the new altitude. On unsteady legs she steals Maddy’s gun and takes off for Lexi as fast as she can. 

She’s not fast enough. 

One shot goes off, then a second and a third just as she makes it into the hallway where Lexi and the Strangler are entangled, a gun in his hand. 

Rue doesn’t think. Just aims. Fires, fires again. 

And Nate Jacobs hits the ground, two wounds blossoming on his chest. 

Lexi rises to her feet and grabs the wall to steady herself. She stares down at him, jaw slack, before she turns around.

The view before her makes Rue want to fall to her knees and praise a god she doesn’t believe in. 

She’d hoped Lexi was long gone from this city even as the idea broke her heart. And somehow here she is instead, right in front of her, exhausted but apparently unharmed. 

Lexi’s face floods with relief when she realizes who fired the shots. 

“Oh my god…”

It’s like the clouds part, the way they throw themselves into each other, clinging to their lifelines. The sun finally seems to shine on them. 

Even as she holds Lexi, Rue can hardly believe this is real. 

“How are you here right now? How’d you find me?”

“You needed me.”

With tears running down her cheeks, Rue leans back, grabs Lexi’s head and peppers her forehead with thankful kisses. Then she holds her again, but as she tightens her arms around Lexi she feels something on the agent’s side. Damp. Warm. 

Her heart sinks into her stomach. 

“Don’t freak out, okay? Promise you’re not gonna freak out on me.” 

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” 

“You’re bleeding.”

“I... what?” 

As Lexi leans away and tries to look Rue grabs her face to stop her. “You don’t need to look. Let’s just sit down.” 

She puts her arm around Lexi’s waist to shoulder the agent’s weight and guides them to the floor. “Did you call help?”

Lexi nods, clinches her eyes shut. “Am I really bleeding? I don’t feel anything.”

Rue’s heart sinks deeper when she examines the side of Lexi’s chest, just under the armpit. Her own blood goes ice cold. 

“I think you might’ve gotten shot, okay? But it’s not too bad, I don’t think. You called 911 before you came in right?”

Lexi nods, grits her teeth, starting to feel the effects of the wound now that the adrenaline’s worn off. 

Rue peels her blouse off and presses it against the wound to try and staunch the bleeding. “No exit wound. I think the bullet’s still in you,” she confirms as she feels around Lexi’s back.

“Is that good or bad?”

“It could be one of those two options.”

“Not helpf— ah!” Lexi gasps in pain and doubles over. There isn’t much color in her face anymore, gone from surprise or shock.

“I know, I’m sorry! I’m not qualified for this.”

After a moment of uneasy silence she checks on Lexi, who’s helplessly staring at Rue’s chest under the thin white tank top. 

“Are you serious right now?” 

Lexi says nothing in reply, only winces. When she looks down and sees the blood soaked up over her wound, her eyes roll back and her head lolls to the side, having promptly fainted at the sight of her own blood. 

Rue hugs her as the wailing sirens grow louder, closer outside. 


	40. Waiting

For all the time in her life spent waiting, Rue hasn’t gotten any better at it. 

“Like, I’m assuming they just want to be really thorough. I mean, how long does this usually take?”

The desk nurse blinks quickly when she realizes she’s been queued to speak. “It varies. We’ll let you know as soon as she’s out of surgery.” 

“No, yeah, I know. I’m just saying...” Rue drums her fingers on the desk and peers over the nurse’s shoulder, wishing she could see through the swinging doors and into the trauma unit. “‘If something were wrong they would’ve told me by now. Right?”

“I don’t have anything new to tell you since the last time you asked. I’m sorry.”

“Helpful, thanks.” Rue takes one last look at the doors then heads back to her seat restless as ever. 

The poor woman at the desk doesn’t know any more about Lexi now than she did fifteen minutes ago. Rue knows this. But she can’t help herself. She needs something to do, some way to help, or at least convince herself that she’s trying to help. Anything’s better than sitting here and accepting that everything’s out of her hands now. 

With a loud huff she flops back into her hard plastic chair, jolting Fez awake. 

“They tell you anything?” He rubs the back of his neck, sore from his own attack. 

“Not really,” she huffs, readjusting the ice pack clutched against her ribs. 

“You shoulda stayed the night here. You ain’t right yet.” 

Rue scoffs in feigned offense. “If I really needed to be _hospitalized_ , could I do this?” 

She grabs an empty styrofoam cup from the side table and aims for a nearby trash can with a clean one-handed shot. The cup bounces off the rim and rolls around to the middle of the floor. 

“Whatever. Close enough to prove my point.”

“Listen,” Fez attempts to refocus, “what I’m sayin’ is you need to take care of yourself ‘cause you got seriously fucked up back there.”

Fez is right, and he just wants her to take care of herself. Lexi would want the same. Rue knows all of this. 

“I’m not going anywhere. Not until I see her.”

“Yo stubborn ass...” he mumbles under his breath. 

She leans away from him and takes a closer look at the stitches above his eyebrow. “You should really go home, though. Seriously. You don’t need to wait with me.”

“Don’t have nowhere else to be.” He doesn’t look at her but doesn’t move, either. 

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess,” she admits. Nervous for his reply, she plays with the hem of the clean sweatshirt the hospital gave her. 

“Someone’s gotta have your back. Besides ya girl.”

She smiles even as she punches his arm. _‘Ya girl’_ —Fezco doesn’t ask questions. She always liked that about him.

It’s a good thing, too. If he were to ask how the work partner she barely tolerated became _ya girl_ in a matter of weeks, how could Rue explain? She’s lived an entire life in the span of this case, and there’s no way to account for every moment in this lifetime that made her fall so deeply and uniquely in love. She only realized her feelings for Lexi _after_ kissing her. Somehow Lexi felt the same way. And for just one breath they had each other on the open road. 

And then… the last 24 hours happened. The fight. The attack. The kidnapping. The rescue Then Maddy, Lexi, Nate all went down in minutes. Two dead, three injured including Fez. 

From the beginning, there was no way this case would end easily. Now the end is over and Rue’s struggling to pick up the pieces.

She’s fairly certain that Lexi bull rushed the Strangler and deflected the gun; otherwise she would’ve been hit in a terminal area instead of the side of her body. Her strategy—going straight for an assailant twice her weight and a foot taller—was incredibly reckless, stupid, more of a Bennett move than Howard’s brand. It worked, though, didn’t it? She stopped him from shooting her point blank and bought Rue time to take him down. 

She still caught a bullet in the process. 

The lump in Rue’s throat knots up again at the thought. There’s no accounting for how a bullet behaves when it enters the human body, how it ricochets off of bone and rips through organs and muscle—

“Rue, chill the fuck out with your legs, man.”

“Sorry.”

She hadn’t noticed the chairs around her starting to rattle as she bounced her legs, another habit of hers when she gets too worked up. She did the same when they interviewed BB at the precinct. Even in the middle of that interview Lexi made sure she was alright, a hand on her knee to calm her down. 

Given her broken ribs, a chair with armrests is just about the worst place to spend the night. Rue twists uncomfortably in her seat. It feels all too similar to the chair she was tied to… Trapped in. Tormented in. Almost killed in. 

She stands up too fast and wipes the palms of her hands on her sweatpants. 

“I’m gonna use the bathroom.”

* * *

After she washes the rest of the dried blood out of her nostrils, Rue rests against the counter to catch a breath. She finally sees herself, the bruises on her face and the cut on her jaw and her matted hair. At least she cleaned Perez’s blood off with a wet wipe, but it still feels like she couldn’t quite get it all off. 

Her body’s still struggling to catch up to all it has endured in just a few hours. Her concussed mind hasn’t caught up either. Until then she feels no sense of comfort. How could she? She and Lexi both came within seconds of dying. This isn’t something she can walk away from easily, even if it was theoretically part of the job she signed up for. 

And it’s not over—what if their all-too-brief reunion becomes the last time they saw each other? What if Lexi bleeds out on that table tonight? 

Bile surges up her throat at the thought. 

_One, two, three, four, five…_ She starts to tap her fingers on her palms again, counting off, trying to control her breathing, whatever it takes to not freak out. She needs to hold it together just a little longer, just until she knows if Lexi will be okay. 

* * *

When Rue returns to the waiting room she wonders if her mind’s playing tricks on her. She swears Captain Ali’s standing there looking horribly out of place, a sight paradoxically unsettling and comforting. 

He can’t hide his initial shock when he sees her. She can’t blame him. She knows she looks like shit right now. At least she has a good excuse. 

“Glad I found you. Smoke break?”

“I just quit.”

He tips his head to the door. “Come outside. Get some air with me then.”

* * *

It’s already dark out, meaning Rue missed a full day of sunlight trapped in that room. All she can do now is breathe free air and remind herself, yet again, that she made it to the other side. 

As she and Ali stand at the designated smoking corner, it occurs to Rue that he looks strange because she’s never seen him wearing anything other than a uniform or suit. He looks older in civilian clothes. Everyone looks a little more mortal in Rue’s eyes after today. 

“Captain, I— I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. For… everything.” 

Ali looks up to the sky and squints. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”

She turns to him with a furrowed brow, unsure of the direction of the conversation. 

“Means we have a calm night ahead.” He takes a drag of the cigarette and exhales through his nose. 

“I’m pretty sure it looks red because of pollution.”

He chuckles to himself and looks down at his shoes. “You remind me of my daughter.”

“How?”

“Always the smartest in the room.”

“I’m definitely not the smartest.”

Ali tucks his chin, allowing a beat of silence. “I spoke to my deputy chief about an hour ago. Briefed her on what happened today. She was very impressed with your resolve.” Then he pauses again. His lips tighten. “She asked that you be reinstated.”

At the beginning of this case, both ancient history and not so long ago, those were the only words Rue wanted to hear. Her lifeline. The irony is almost unbelievable. 

“I… I can’t.” She turns and looks up back to the hospital building. “I’ve got other priorities.”

The captain doesn’t hide his surprise by her answer very well, nor his relief. “I hope you realize what you did today.”

“I know it was stupid to—.”

“Bennett, you stopped the state’s most notorious killer of the last decade. Whatever you choose to do, you’ve earned your place back.”

* * *

Fez is asleep again when Rue comes back to the waiting room. Grasping for comfort, she wraps her arms around his upper arm and leans against him. When she’s finally able to fall asleep, her head on Fez’s shoulder, it’s not from peace of mind. It’s from exhaustion. 

* * *

“Yo, Rue!”

Just as she was finally starting to get some quality rest, Fezco pulls her back in...

She grimaces the pain in her injured ribs as she sits up, rubs her tired eyes, blinks away the blurriness. A tawny man in scrubs and a white coat is standing in front of her. Suddenly she’s not so tired anymore. 

“Ms. Bennett?”

“Is Lexi okay?”

Neither of them waste time with formalities as the doctor pulls up a chair right there in the waiting room, meeting Rue at eye level. 

“The surgery went very well. We stemmed off the bleeding and repaired most of the damage in the chest wall, but there’s a grade II liver laceration and a pulmonary contusion that we need to monitor. We’ll need to keep her here for at least the next week.”

The surgeon’s clinical impassivity doesn’t provide her much comfort, or even insight. 

“So is she gonna be okay?”

“I’m not making any promises, alright? That’s not my job here,” he reminds her as he braces his hands. “Based on the outcome of the surgery, and assuming she completes physical therapy, I don’t expect she’ll have any complications beyond the normal after-effects for this type of injury.”

“That’s great, that’s... Oh thank god. Er— thank _you_. Is she awake yet? Is she in pain?” The weight lifts off of Rue’s chest enough for her to finally take a full breath, though her ribs twinge with pain. 

“Still sedated for now. We’ll let you know where to go once we get her a bed.”

Rue gulps for breath and runs her fingers through her hair, her head spinning with the good news. The emotions she hadn’t fully allowed herself to feel come rushing in alongside the relief as she shakes the doctor’s hand. 

* * *

So comes the next round of waiting. At least this time Rue has a little more peace of mind, though her urgency hasn’t dulled. 

How much of our lives do we spend on waiting? Rue’s become particularly conscious of this form of waste since she met Lexi. Hours turn into days, weeks, months while we wait for the tide to turn in our favor—the next case, the next promotion. The next drink. For Jules to come back. 

The last eighteen hours have been the longest of Rue’s life. Never, for the rest of it, would she take one moment for granted. Not a single look, smile, laugh, touch, or breath. Not her own, and especially not Lexi’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wandavision so fucking good gd


End file.
